


Lupercalia

by MayhemHeart



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Background Anthea/Alicia, Background Sherlock/John - Freeform, Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, F/F, Frottage, Greg Has A Twin, Idiots in Love, Inspired by Chilling Adventures of Sabrina, M/M, Magic, Making Out, Mutual Pining, Mycroft has a beard, Mythology - Freeform, Not as dark as the show, Playful Sex, Rituals, Romance, Sex Rituals, Shifter Lestrade, Shifters, Teasing, The Dark Lord is softer in this, The Dark Lord ships it, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Unusual courting, Warlock Lestrade, Warlock Mycroft, Warlocks, Witches, anthea ships it, but just the world itself, lots of eye fucking, mystrade, soft bois, spells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:34:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27537643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayhemHeart/pseuds/MayhemHeart
Summary: Mycroft barely contains his sneer, “I will participate in the same capacity that I always have. Someone has to stand watch while everyone goes prancing off naked into the woods.”Anthea waves a hand at him, “Pish posh. You’ve been single for far too long. Even if nothing comes from it, you can at least let loose one night. What’s the point of being a witch if you cannot partake in carnal pleasures at will?”Mycroft scoffs, “There is no one with whom I would even consider--”“What about a certain silver fox who has found his way back to the coven?” Alicia asks coyly.Mycroft turns his head sharply to look at her, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 46
Kudos: 164





	1. Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> So... Happy Late Halloween! 
> 
> Few things:  
> This is heavily influenced by the world in the Chilling Adventures of Sabrina, but I took a LOT of liberties. None of the characters from the show are in this; I’m just playing in their universe. I use the name Veronica for an OC but it's just a nod to the name, not the Veronica from Riverdale/Archie.
> 
> The Dark Lord is not as “evil” since I wanted this to be more light-hearted (despite what the angst may have you believe).
> 
> This is in no way, shape, or form supposed to be an accurate representation of Pagans, Wiccans, Satanists, Spiritualists, and anyone else in between. This is pure fantasy.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who encouraged me along the way <3 I hope you all enjoy this as much as I did writing it.  
> Shout out to trillian_jdc for the beta, you are lovely. ❤
> 
> This story came about because my friend was low-key disappointed when I pitched my other Sabina crossover idea (the 1995 movie with Julia Ormond) that I wasn’t talking about Sabrina the witch and that Greg wasn’t going to be a witch. This was meant to be a very short Halloween one-shot, and here we are over 15K words later. Most of it is complete, just ironing out the details. This is the most I’ve ever written for one story. 
> 
> All mistakes are mine.
> 
> Dee, this one’s for you. Thanks for the late-night pep talks and support. I love you, bro.

Chapter 1:

Homecoming

Greg never realized how much weight he had been carrying on his shoulders until it was unexpectedly gone. The invisible pressure had been with him so long that it had become a part of him, and he simply couldn't remember a time without it. It manifested when Greg left home all those years ago and moved to London, not knowing if he would ever go back. He had always felt like that one jigsaw piece that got placed in the wrong box, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find his place. His twin sister had no issues settling in and starting her life while he felt restless and lost. It wasn’t as if Greg meant to run away and never come back; he just wanted to see what else was out there beyond his hometown. 

He had hoped London would have a spot for him, and while he loved it there, he still didn’t quite fit properly... he just blended in. He made friends and started a career, but the dichotomy of his life, his half-breed status, made complete integration into the mortal world impossible. Being half warlock and half shifter did not make life easy. He was toeing the line of darkness while standing on the grounds of neutrality (because let’s face it - Mother Nature’s magic was deadly and beautiful and therefore defined as neither light nor dark). 

Greg had to be endlessly alert and aware of other covens, angels, packs, hunters, and anything else that went bump in the night (or day). He kept a low profile as much as he could, being a DS in a vast city. He never knew if others would figure out what he was and try to use him or destroy him for merely existing (case in point: angels and hunters). While it was freeing being on his own, it was also exhausting not having someone to watch your back. 

His sister, Veronica, visited a few times, and his best friend Sally made a point to see him at least twice a year. Social media helped Greg stay connected in the meantime, even if it meant he had to put up with Sherlock deducing him every time he posted a picture. _Single again, I see. I told you the cardiologist had commitment issues. That nicotine patch is not helping; switch brands. You are overdue for a shift._

Sometimes, Greg thought he heard whispers calling out to him at night, trying to lure him back homeward. He occasionally thought about it, going back, but besides his sister and one idiotic fantasy, there was nothing for him in Sherrindale. Until Ronnie had called crying and frantic; her git of a husband had left her and the twins. Greg had made up his mind before she even asked. A week later, he found himself leaving the city behind, the car packed, lease broken on his flat, and job on hold as he followed the magnetic pull towards his birthplace. 

***

As Greg drives past the fading town sign, he is baffled to feel the perpetual tension in his shoulders snap and lift. The familiar “Let Sherrindale cast a spell on you” greets him like an old friend, and his hair ruffles as if there is a breeze inside the closed up car. He feels a tentative touch against his aura, and he realizes it's the town’s protective wards inspecting him. He lets himself relax, accepting the magical contact. His breath hitches, and he bites his lower lip, sharp canines almost drawing blood when it dawns on him just whose magic is protecting the town. The familiar essence of the caster’s spell sends a shiver from his head to the tips of his toes. He can practically imagine those long sensitive fingers caressing the back of his neck before retreating, the wards letting him pass. 

A strange sensation settles in his chest, and it takes Greg the rest of his drive to his sister’s cottage to figure out that for the first time in his life, he almost feels as if he’s finally home. 

*** 

Greg smiles as Veronica pokes her head into the twins’ rooms for the 20th time before silently closing the door, careful not to wake them. 

“Ronnie, it’s going to be fine,” Greg says and pulls his sister away, pushing her shorter frame towards the front door. She turns around and looks up at Greg, her forest-green eyes meeting dark mahogany. 

“Call me if you need me. I swear Greg--”

“Stop,” Greg interrupts and pulls her into a tight hug, resting his chin on top of her soft brown hair, breathing in the smell of lavender. “I got this. If they wake up, I can handle it. I used to watch my friend’s kit back in London.”

Ronnie’s arms wrap around his waist, and her shoulders sag as she mumbles into his chest, “A _mortal_ kit, Greg. Satan help you, Romy and Quinn can actually turn into pups; the rules are different.”

Greg gives a small laugh, “Makes them easier to wrangle, then.”

“I hate you,” Ronnie pulls back and punches his arm. He can still see some of the stress around her eyes, but the smile on her face softens it. She looks so much like their mother, with her delicate features and pale skin, it makes his heart ache. 

Greg closes his eyes and kisses her forehead gently before giving her another shove towards the door. “Go on and enjoy the night out with the girls.” 

“Alright, but if anything happens, _anything,_ Greg -- you call me.”

Greg chuckles, “Stop worrying. Besides, Sal is coming over. I think we both can handle two two-year-olds.”

“Just watch out for -” she wiggles her fingers for effect, “shifty magic.”

Greg smiles, “Yes, Mum. Now go have fun.” 

After another quick hug, Ronnie leans up and kisses Greg’s cheek, “You are a lifesaver,” she says before hurrying out the door. 

Greg feels the smile slip off his face as the door closes, and he sighs heavily, running a hand through his hair with his other hand on his hip. He had only been back a month, and it was the first time he was able to convince his sister to leave the house. Greg looks around the small living room at the mess that only two small children could create and shakes his head. Hopefully, they sleep through the night, and he doesn’t have to worry about separation anxiety. They seemed comfortable with him, but Greg feels guilty that he didn’t visit when they were born. 

Work had been an easy excuse to use to avoid coming back, but now that he’s here, he resolves to be a better brother and uncle. Unlike werewolves, shifters didn’t usually stay in packs, but that didn’t mean they didn’t have one; they just tended to be more solitary. On the other hand, witches had covens, so Greg fought a constant internal war to have both his independence and a pack. Greg had been jealous that Veronica found a way to accept her duality and be content with it. Until Jim, that is. 

The warlock had come into his sister’s life and swept her off her feet when they were still in school. Jim had been a transfer student, and when their parents had passed away their last school year, he had been there for Ronnie. Greg regrets letting Jim be her rock when he should have helped shoulder their burdens, but Greg had been too caught up in his own problems. And now Jim was gone, leaving his sister's heart in pieces, and Greg was trying to make up for the lost time. _Fuck_ , Greg felt guilty. 

Jim’s short explanation made everything worse; he left a single note behind that said that he no longer wanted to be a father and husband, that he wanted more in life. _More in life,_ Greg scoffs, what he would _give_ to have someone in his life that loved him the way his sister loved Jim. To have a family, to have a place, a home.

His sister’s inverted cross on the living room wall shifts slightly, and Greg squints at it suspiciously. He forgot being so close to his coven meant being closer to the Dark Lord’s presence. 

“Don’t go doing me any favors,” Greg says aloud to the empty room, just in case. 

The lights flicker, and the radio flares to life, first with static garbles, as if someone is switching stations too quickly, before playing the song “I Got You Babe” by Sonny and Cher. Greg shakes his head as he starts to pick up the toys all over the floor. 

“I’m not making any deals with you,” he says, smiling.

The radio goes static again until Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” comes through the speakers. 

This time Greg laughs, “Oof, rub it in, why don’t you?” The music plays for a little more before the radio turns off, and the house is silent again. Greg feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and the air pressure around him feels heavy. He knows most people would be frightened, but Greg has never been fearful of _the Dark_. Deep down, he just knew he was safe, and he suspected a part of that was the earth magic that was also running through his veins. He cocks his head to the side and waits, but nothing happens. He’s not sure what game the Dark Lord is playing at, but Greg’s surprised he’s gotten _his_ attention enough to perform parlor tricks. The unseen presence eventually leaves, and Greg finishes cleaning up the living room before moving on to tidy up the kitchen. 

An hour later, Greg steps out onto the aged wooden planks making up the spacious back porch and leaves the door cracked open in case one of the twins wakes up. There are two chairs with dark red outdoor pillows, and Greg can tell by the worn fabric on one of the cushions which chair Ronnie usually uses. The other chair looks untouched, and he frowns, thinking about his sister sitting out here alone while Jim sits inside. He pushes the thoughts away and takes in the scene around him. The cold night air is crisp, and Greg breathes in deep, savoring the earth’s fresh scent. He can smell wet dirt, grass, the evening dew, and damp moss if he concentrates. Can't get this in the city, he thinks. 

Ronnie’s house sits close to the edge of the woods, and Greg leans against the worn oak railing, peering into the thick line of trees singing with the sounds of insects. The forest seems to breathe with the wind; leaves flutter, and branches occasionally creak. Everything around him feels so alive, and he itches to shift and go for a run, to feel the ground float by on quick paws. To feel the pulse of the earth around him and reveal in it. It was always too risky to shift and run free back in London, so it was usually a rare indulgence (confined to small areas). But here… he could run whenever he liked. Tomorrow, he promises himself, he will go for a run tomorrow. 

The crunch of footsteps on gravel reaches his ears, and he tilts his head to the side for a moment. Sally’s familiar gait is about a kilometer away, and he waits about ten minutes before she is closer to the house, and he sends a quick text.

**Back porch - G**

He hears her phone ping and then her huff of laughter, “Bloody shifter,” she murmurs, and a few moments later, he sees her coming around the corner of the house. Her dark curls are down, and she’s changed out of her work clothes into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that says Alumni of The Academy of the Unseen Arts. Her pebble brown eyes brighten when she sees him. 

“I bring a gift,” she says and raises a bottle of scotch, grinning. 

Greg raises his eyebrows, “Fuck, Sal. I’m _babysitting_. Ronnie would have a fit.”

“Aw, come on, Greggy, you can have a drink or two,” she teases as she comes up to him and pulls him into a hug. Greg hugs her back, smelling the fading strain from the workday under the jasmine and mint of her body wash. 

Greg ends up getting them two glass tumblers. He pours himself two fingers worth and raises his eyebrows at Sally's four. 

“Long day,” she explains and settles into one of the wooden chairs next to Greg. “I know this isn’t London, but you have _no_ idea what we deal with down at the nick. You would think it would be normal mortal crimes, but you’d be surprised at the amount of supernatural shit we run into here. I had to deal with a row between an incubus and a leprechaun over a fender bender. It was a bloody nightmare.”

Greg laughs, “I would have loved to have seen that mitigation, _Constable Donovan_.”

Sally kicks his leg slightly, “come off it, _Detective Sergeant._ What was that like, by the way?”

“Not as exciting as you would think. I mean, there are a lot of violent crimes, yeah? But it’s mostly mortal crimes. London still pretends that we don't exist, so anything off the typical radar is usually explained away - mental illness, freak accident, etcetera.” Greg frowns, looking at his almost empty glass. “It’s ironic that our kind is stereotyped as monsters when the real boogeyman is just a normal human.”

Greg can feel Sally’s eyes on him as he continues to stare at his glass, trying not to think back on the cases he’s worked and the horrors he’s seen. Eventually, Sally clears her throat and asks softly, “Does Ronnie know you turned down the promotion for Inspector?”

“No,” Greg shakes his head, his tone serious, “and I don’t need you telling her, either. She has enough on her plate. I don’t need her to feel some misguided guilt on my behalf.” 

Sally holds up both hands, tawny fingers still wrapped around her glass in her right hand, “I won’t tell a soul. Hell’s honor.”

Greg gives in and pours another finger’s worth of scotch into his cup, “Ta.”

“You know we have a position open?” Sally asks. “There’s no criminal department, but we could use someone like you. It’s just Dimmock and me now since Gregson retired.”

“Sally,” Greg begins and winces, “I don’t know if--”

“If you’re staying?”

“Yeah.”

Sally huffs with irritation, “Honestly, Greg,” she says but doesn’t continue. He already knows what she's thinking, that he's going to bolt as soon as he can. Greg isn’t sure what his long term goal is. Help Ronnie and the twins, that’s as far as he got. For how long? He doesn’t know. 

Thankfully their conversation takes a light-hearted turn, and they trade comical stories about the job. Sally talks about her on-again, off-again relationship with Anderson while Greg bemoans his dating failures. It’s getting close to midnight when Greg senses there is something wrong. Sally keeps opening her mouth to say something before hesitating and taking a sip from her glass instead. 

“Sally, you’re my best mate, just say what you want to say,” Greg says; he’s pretty sure he knows the topic she wants to discuss. For this time of year, it’s basically the talk of the town. 

Sally chuckles before saying, “You came back just in time for Lupercalia.”

Bingo. Lupercalia was a week-long ritual that many witches celebrated as a “symphony of sensuality and pleasure.” It was started by Roman witches and named after the cave where the she-wolf nurtured Romulus and Remus. It symbolized fertility and health, but in this day and age, the meaning took on a more carnal nature. There were three parts: matchmaking, courting, and the hunt. The first two were innocent enough, but the last part involved a lot... _more_. 

“Yeeeeah, Sal,” he begins, “about that-”

“You _are_ going to participate, aren’t you?” She asks. There’s almost an accusatory tone to her voice. 

“I think I’m going to pass.”

There’s a heavy silence before Sally giggles, she fucking giggles, before she murmurs, “Oops.”

Greg gives a long-suffering sigh, “What did you do?”

Sally, at least, looks somewhat embarrassed, “I may have submitted your name when I submitted mine.”

Greg groans and buries his face in his hands, “Why? Why would you do that?”

“Look,” Sally turns on her constable voice, “we know that you didn’t come back home just for your sister. You told me you felt yourself drifting before that arsehole ever left. What better way to become grounded than getting back to your roots?”

“I hardly think participating in Lupercalia is getting back to my roots. Besides, I’m not technically part of the path of the night; you know that.”

“Technically, you are part of it… well one half. Besides,” Sally nudges his ankle with her foot, “a little sex might be fun for you.”

Greg grimaces, “I’m not interested in hooking up with a stranger, and the few people I know here are not at the top of my list to... to…”

“Shag?” 

“Yeah.”

“Are you really sure there is no one on _your_ _list?_ ”

Greg feels his face flush, and he bites the inside of his cheek. When he doesn’t respond, Sally continues, “Mmm, thought so. You know he’s still single? Not surprised though, hard to get close to someone made of ice.” 

“That’s not exactly fair, Sal,” Greg says and tries not to gush. “He’s incredibly intelligent and deeply committed to his position. It’s a lot of pressure to deal with, you know? Especially when you grow up in that family - look at Sherlock, for example.”

“Satan, that freak,” Sally murmurs, “it’s a shame he has the best apothecary within 100 miles.”

Greg snorts, “I need to go see him soon before he tracks me down.”

Sally takes a sip of her drink, “You can meet John. He’s a doctor at the clinic next to Sherlock’s. He moved here a few months ago; they’ve gotten _really_ close.” She grins, “and he’s _mortal_.”

Greg raises his eyebrows but doesn’t comment on it. If Sherlock has found someone, then he’s happy for him. He knows Sally is trying to deflect and distract him, so he focuses on the issue at hand, “Anyway, Lupercalia is a terrible idea. The last time was enough embarrassment to last me a lifetime. You know that.”

“Yes, yes,” Sally says but waves her hand at him, “but it was the first time you participated, and that was with young, awkward Greg.”

“Ta,” Greg bites out, but she ignores him and continues.

“Now you’re…” she waves her hand in a circle towards him, “this. If I didn’t see you like a brother, I would climb you like a tree.”

“Please shut up,” Greg groans, embarrassed. 

Sally grins, “You aren’t bad to look at, Greg. You know you’re fit, so flaunt it. I’m surprised he hasn’t thrown himself at you.”

Greg laughs and throws the chair pillow at her. He’s so fucked. The festival matches are random, so it’s not like he would even get matched with… _Damn_ , why is he even thinking about this? It’s not like he’s going to go through with it, right? He glares at Sally’s smug face. She knows he’s already thinking about it. The same match is not a guarantee; lighting doesn’t always strike twice, does it? 

Satan help him. When he agreed to go with Ronnie and the kids to night service last week, he knew Mycroft would be there. He knew Mycroft had been High Priest for years, but it didn't prepare him for when he actually saw the tall warlock standing at the altar of the church, sinful in his dark tailored suit. He was still so beautiful, even with the cold, calculating expression on his face, his eyes like polished metal. And the beard! Greg hadn’t expected that, and ever since, he couldn’t stop thinking about what it would feel like if they kissed. What the trimmed ginger hairs would feel like scraping down his chest, against his thighs.

He shakes his head to clear his thoughts. No, that broom had already flown, and there was no going back. Besides, Mycroft Holmes doesn’t throw himself at anyone, let alone a half breed like him. 

***

Mycroft sits at his elegant mahogany desk with dark leather top, scowling as he goes over the supply checklist for the Lupercalia festival, his quill scratching the parchment a little too harshly as he ticks off the items. Sacrificial blood, milk, chocolate, figs, cherries… _Tedious_ , Mycroft sighs. It was one of his Coven’s favorite festivals, but it was a bit of a sore spot for Mycroft. He had participated once and once only. It had been horrible and awkward, and he had no desire to do it again. He would rather stay here in his hidden office, reading a scroll by the firelight. 

He’s still scowling as Alicia and Anthea spill into his office, giggling like a pair of teenagers, and he rolls his eyes after taking one look at their disheveled appearances. Alicia is wearing a dark plum v-neck sheath dress with a straight hem. The fabric is wrinkled near her hips as if someone had been grabbing it; there are a few strands of blonde hair escaping from her perfectly coiled bun. Anthea is wearing a charcoal tailored blazer over a white blouse with matching suit trousers. One of the buttons on her shirt is missing, and her lipstick is slightly smudged.

“It’s barely noon, and you two are drunk,” he states. 

“Not drunk but pleasantly tipsy, thank you very much, your _excellency,_ ” Anthea quips smartly, pushing her dark hair back behind her ears. 

“The class was practicing manipulating chemical properties of wine.” Alicia clarifies, smoothing down her dress fabric and sitting in a crimson leather wingback chair in front of Mycroft’s desk. 

“And you just had to sample the results?” Mycroft asks, eyebrow raised. He’s ignoring the satisfied look the two women share. 

Anthea laughs while Alicia replies, “Of course.”

“You are lucky you were not poisoned.” 

Anthea tuts and leans a hip against his desk, looking down at the list with its angry ink marks, “So…” she starts, and Mycroft braces himself for the inevitable. 

“Are you going to partake in Lupercalia this year?”

Mycroft’s position as High Priest automatically made him Master of the Hunt, so he couldn’t avoid the rituals entirely, but he always opted to stand watch, never attempting to match with anyone. Satan forbid, he gets matched with someone like Anderson or Mrs. Hudson. The matches were supposed to be random, but Mycroft knew there was always a power at play, and the matches were deliberately made. He didn’t want to take that chance. 

Mycroft barely contains his sneer, “I will participate in the same capacity that I always have. Someone has to stand watch while everyone goes prancing off naked into the woods.”

Anthea waves a hand at him, “Pish posh. You’ve been single for far too long. Even if nothing comes from it, you can at least let loose one night. What’s the point of being a witch if you cannot partake in carnal pleasures at will?”

Mycroft scoffs, “There is no one with whom I would even consider--”

“What about a certain silver fox who has found his way back to the coven?” Alicia asks coyly. 

Mycroft turns his head sharply to look at her, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Who’s being ridiculous? Is it not your duty as high priest to open your arms to our wayward flock?” She teases. 

“Lestrade is simply here to support his sister. You know his half status bends the rules -- he can come and go as he pleases. I am under no obligation to contact him, and I’m certainly not going to chase after him.”

“No, that's what the hunt is for,” Anthea says, and both of the women giggle. 

“Satan help me,” he mutters. 

“He came to service last week,” Anthea says as if that is supposed to _mean_ something to him. 

Mycroft had noticed, of course he had. It was impossible to miss when Greg Lestrade walked into a room. He had thought that the tingling in the pit of his stomach whenever he found himself near Greg had been a schoolboy crush, the combination of teenage hormones and idiotic romanticisms. He was wrong. 

He had known the moment Greg was back, and he told himself that he would remain politely distant when their paths finally crossed. But when the devastatingly handsome man had walked into his small church, the tingling came back. Greg Lestrade was undoubtedly a sight to behold. His powerful well-muscled body moved with predatory grace. Mycroft's pulse quickened when Greg leaned against the back wall, strong arms crossed casually, shirt tight around his biceps. He looked the same but was just _more_ \-- more what? More breathtaking? More built? More everything he always and still wanted? Even the dark hair at his temples that was starting to go grey, as if kissed by moonlight, was enough to make his knees weak. 

Their gazes met, and an easy smile played at the corner of Greg’s mouth. Mycroft felt himself give an involuntary smile in return before he hid his face by looking down at the ancient tome in front of him, horrified. He was so fucked. Mycroft knew Greg’s shifter abilities gave the man heightened senses, and he prayed that the man wasn’t able to hear his rabbit heartbeat.

”Mycroft?” Alicia’s voice cuts through his thoughts like a hot knife, and he schools his features back into his familiar blank facade. 

”Yes?”

The two witches share a knowing look, and Anthea repeats, ”Greg was at service last week.”

“And? We didn't speak.”

“Well, we spoke,” Alicia says, “he asked about you.”

Mycroft arches an eyebrow, and that’s enough for her to continue. 

“Mmhmm. Wanted to know how you have been, said you looked good, said he was happy that you finally made High Priest…”

“Well,” Mycroft clears his throat and looks down at the list in front of him, fingers rubbing at the corner of the parchment. “That was very considerate of him.”

“He’s single, you know,” Anthea says, reaching over and sliding the parchment away from Mycroft’s fingers before he accidentally smudges the ink. “Claimed he had no one back in London when he heard you had no current attachments. I’m not sure he meant to let it slip, but he didn’t take it back.”

 _Bloody hell_ , Mycroft thinks. His tie suddenly feels very tight. 

“He misses you,” Alicia says. 

Mycroft narrows his eyes, “I doubt he told you _that._ ”

“No, but you can just tell, Mycroft. The whole service he looked at you with such longing.”

Mycroft gives a dry sarcastic laugh, “Oh, I’m sure.”

Anthea huffs with annoyance, walking away from his desk to throw herself in the other wingback chair next to Alicia. “How is it that you can tell me someone’s life story based on their clothing choice, but you cannot see how besotted Greg is with you?”

Mycroft closes his eyes and forces himself to squash the tiny ray of hope in his chest at her words. 

“You guys should talk about what happened,” Anthea says so softly he almost doesn’t hear her. 

_Enough_ , Mycroft thinks. He opens his eyes and fixes them with a steely gaze. “I refuse to entertain you both any further,” he snaps, and he rolls up the parchment in front of him before waving his hand at the two witches dismissively. “Go, you have miscreants to teach.”

Anthea rolls her eyes and shares a silent look with Alicia, who just tilts her head in response. Mycroft ignores the way his heart clenches at their shared ease with each other. He didn’t want to admit he sometimes felt jealous of their relationship. Mycroft pulls out a thick leather-bound tome and pretends to study its pages until he hears the click of his office door shut. He’s finally alone again and too busy glaring at the pages in front of him that he misses the way the crackling fire in the fireplace briefly flares a brilliant shade of green before returning to normal.


	2. Matchmaker, Matchmaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thursday!
> 
> Thanks again to the lovely trillian_jdc for the beta ❤️❤️

The last time Greg had seen Sherlock’s face in person was when he was packing up his car to leave. Sherlock’s eleven-year-old face looking up at him, crumbled with despair while Greg made empty promises to visit. Sherlock had called him a coward before running away, leaving the smell of his tears in the air. Greg had felt horribly guilty, and even though they reconnected online over the years, some of the guilt remained. He feels it now as he stands outside the small shop, the Holmes Apothecary sign hanging low above his head. He should have visited sooner, before, anytime… he takes a deep breath and pushes forward. Better late than never. 

A bell chimes as Greg opens the door and walks over the threshold onto the wood floorboards; his skin tingles as the invisible ward lets him pass. He’s expecting to be assaulted by an overwhelming blast of different scents, like every other time he walks into a store that makes his nose burn. It’s especially bad when he passes by a fragrance or candle shop. The apothecary is lined with ebony hardwood shelves, bottles, and jars taking up every available space behind a sleek counter, except for an archway covered by a navy curtain, presumably hiding a backroom. 

There’s a whole wall dedicated to herbs from acacia resin and John the Conquer root to sage and wormwood. Dried herbs and flowers hang down in bundles from the high ceiling like an upside-down meadow. Another section has only candles of all shapes, colors, and sizes. Cauldrons, crystals, pendulums, runes, tomes, oils, and other supplies fill in the rest. 

The sight is remarkable, and Greg takes some time to adjust to it all. He feels a sudden burst of pride in Sherlock and what he has built for himself in this town. He had seen pictures online, but to be standing here in person was another thing. It takes a moment for him to realize, as he looks around, that his nose isn’t stinging. He can smell individual herbs and oils, but instead of it overpowering him, everything is muted, soft, and non-abrasive against his senses. 

“It’s a spell,” Sherlock’s deep voice drawls from behind the navy curtain before he is pushing past the heavy cloth and walking towards Greg, followed by a shorter blond man, who Greg suspects is the famous John. 

Sherlock looks familiar and different at the same time. Based on Mycroft’s height, he knew that one day Sherlock would tower over him, and he does. His face is thinner and more defined, cheekbones pronounced without the soft baby fat to cover them. Dark hair curling over his forehead, locks still wild as ever. 

“What spell?”

“The one that’s stopping your nose from falling off your face,” Sherlock says and rolls his eyes. “You are not the only supernatural afflicted with certain... _delicacies_.” 

“Oi,” Greg says, but he can’t help the smile on his face. He pulls Sherlock into a quick hug as the other man squawks out a protest before relaxing. He smells like ash, rosin, and cherries. “It’s good to see you, kid.”

Sherlock huffs in response, “I suppose I am glad to see you too.” 

Greg tightens his hold just enough for the unspoken _I’m sorry_ to hang in the air. Sherlock sniffs, and his arms give a quick squeeze in reply. _You are forgiven._

A few seconds pass before Sherlock steps back and glances over Greg. _Oh,_ Greg forgot about this. Sure, Sherlock deduced him online, but it was another thing entirely to be under the scrutiny of a Holmes in person. Except Sherlock’s eyes didn’t punch a hole straight through his chest like the ocean storm eyes of his older brother. When he went to church over a week ago and had Mycroft’s attention focused on him from across the room, he had felt flayed open and raw. His chest had been tight, and he had itched to stalk across the room and bury his face into Mycroft’s pale, slender neck to taste his pulse. 

With Sherlock, he felt mildly self-conscious, but nothing more. 

“Sally put your name into the Lupercalia drawing,” Sherlock states. 

“How--what,” Greg stammers, surprised. 

Sherlock waves his hand, dismissively, “It’s obvious. You didn’t plan to because you don’t know if you are staying here or not. You were going to withdraw your name but changed your mind. You should. Stay that is. What you do in the woods is your own business-- Oh unholy Satan,” Sherlock stops short, his face twisting in a grimace. “You won’t withdraw because you hope to get matched with my brother. Honestly, Gavin, there are far better choices than Mycroft. ”

Greg’s face feels hot, and he clenches his fists once before breathing out a calming breath, “Sherlock,” he says, a warning tone under his breath. Much like the one he had to use when a younger Sherlock always followed him around just to ask a million questions about shifting and how earth magic felt. 

Greg continued, “You’re right. What _I_ do is my own business. Besides, it’s been years since Mycroft and me--”

“Please, my brother still pathetically pines over you.”

Greg doesn’t know how to respond to that, and when John clears his throat and steps out from behind Sherlock with a friendly smile on his face breaking the tension, Greg could kiss him. Sherlock introduces them to each other, and before he knows it, Greg’s been talking to Dr. John Watson for over two hours while Sherlock moves about the store, fulfilling custom orders for clients. 

They sit together in two mismatched chairs in the corner of the room while they drink tea. Greg decides he likes John. There’s no deception in his heartbeat, and the way his eyes soften as he looks at Sherlock is almost enough for Greg. The smell of gunpowder on the other man gives him pause, but Greg can hardly blame him, he is _mortal_. What seals the deal for Greg is the small smile Sherlock gives John every time he passes by them.

John’s blue eyes are bright and wide. “So…you really grew up with all of this?” he asks and waves his hand, gesturing around the shop. 

Greg nods and takes a sip of his tea, “Yep.”

“But you seem so --” John stops, hesitant. 

Greg laughs, “Normal?”

John laughs with him and nods, “Yeah. I didn’t mean it negatively. It’s just everyone here is a bit...different. I mean, look at Sherlock--”

As if he was summoned, Sherlock comes sweeping into the room from the back.

“Graham appears normal to you because he ran away as soon as he could and lived in hiding among the _humans._ A few months here, and he will be casting spells again.” 

“I’ve never been a strong spell caster, and you know it,” Greg rolls his eyes and looks back at John. “Anyway, you get used to the strangeness of it.”

“Even all the” John leans closer and whispers, “Devil stuff?”

Greg snorts, “Yes, even that. The Dark Lord provides protection and power to us. I know some might consider the Church of Night evil, but you can say the same thing about other religions as well. Not one side is completely flawless. Growing up, we were taught that the church wasn’t evil, but the embodiment of free will.”

John nods slowly, face thoughtful. 

“Does Sherlock seem evil to you?” Greg asks and tips his head in the other man’s direction. 

They both look over to currently see Sherlock leaning over a small cauldron, with a vial of blood in one hand and an... eyeball in the other. Sherlock murmurs as he drops the eyeball into his concoction, and bright green light flares up from the cauldron, casting shadows on Sherlock’s pale face as grey smoke rises up, curling around him. Sherlock grins mischievously like the cat that ate the canary. 

“Er…” 

“Don’t answer that,” Greg says, chuckling. 

John looks wistful and shakes his head, smiling fondly at Sherlock before turning his attention back towards Greg. Even with Sherlock’s dampening spell, Greg still picks up how John’s pulse quickens when he looks at the taller man. Greg looks down into his teacup to hide his knowing smile. 

Greg takes another sip of tea and continues, “I'm also half warlock, so the rules don't apply the same way to me as Sherlock. My view might be skewed. I didn’t sign the Book of the Beast, but for some reason, the Dark Lord still lets me draw my warlock powers from Him. I don’t… I don’t fear him. Some do, but I’ve never felt threatened by the darkness. Maybe because my powers are pretty weak, and I’m not worth the time to convert fully. ”

John looks confused, “But Sherlock said that your magic was as strong as his brother’s.”

Greg freezes, “Did he, now?”

Before John can reply, Sherlock speaks from his spot over his currently bubbling cauldron. “Of course you are. You just haven't realized it yet.” Sherlock huffs, “Earth magic is ancient and strong, older than the Dark Lord’s. If you could learn to…” He stops and murmurs to himself, “you would be quite the match for My—.”

For the second time that day, Sherlock stops short, and his mouth forms an O in surprise as if he just realizes something for the first time. Then his nose wrinkles in disgust, and he shakes his head before grumbling, “of course, I didn’t see it before, but now I don’t _want_ to see it.”

“See what?” Greg asks, suspicious and confused. 

Sherlock snaps his mouth shut and seems to contemplate before merely saying, “The big picture.”

Greg rolls his eyes. Typical Holmes riddle, he thinks. John just gives a shrug, seemingly as lost as Greg is. 

The tiny sound of nails clicking on the floorboards draws Greg’s attention to the back room, and he sees the curtain shift. A moment later, an Irish setter with chestnut fur comes around the corner, ears twitching when it locks eyes with Greg. 

“Rosie!” Greg exclaims and laughs, “Unholy shit, you are a sight for sore eyes.” 

Sherlock’s familiar snorts and trots over to him, nudging Greg’s outstretched hand with her wet nose. Most witches didn’t get a familiar until they were of age but ever since he could remember, Rosie was there. She had been since Sherlock was a toddler, following him around, acting as his protector. He had only seen the goblin’s true form once, when he was running in the woods, her dark snake-like shadow spilling out from behind the trees before taking the shape he was familiar with. They would sometimes run together, fox and hound, an unlikely pair. 

Rosie gives him a look that reads, “about time, you fool,” before turning her attention to John. To Greg’s amazement, Rosie leans on John, placing her front paws on his lap and licking at his face. Familiars took the shape of animals, but they were anything but domestic. 

John coos at Rosie and pets the side of her neck, and Sherlock’s sigh is heard from the other side of the room. “For Satan’s sake, John. Rosie is a familiar, a goblin, not a pet.”

John rub’s behind Rosie’s ears and says, “Don’t look like a goblin to me, do you, beautiful?” Rosie wags her tail and snuffles closer into John. Greg laughs as Sherlock accuses John of stealing his familiar, and John gives him the bird still petting Rosie. 

Greg feels his body relax, and some of the guilt he feels fades away. 

*** 

Mycroft watches from the altar as witches file into the church, keeping an eye out for a sign of salt and pepper hair. He smooths a hand down his waistcoat and jacket, trying to hide his nervousness. Ever since he became High Priest, he had never felt more comfortable in his own skin, slipping on the role of authority and power with natural-born ease. He was efficient and ruthless if the situation called for it. It was no wonder that many speculated he was born in the ninth level of hell, _Iceman_ indeed. 

But now, with the return of Gregory Lestrade, Mycroft felt anxiety he hadn’t felt in years. He had known the instant Greg had driven into town, his broken quill a testament to that, as it snapped in his hand. Greg’s energies had brushed against his protective wards, like warm fingertips trailing down his spine, and Mycroft almost had a panic attack. He had indulged himself in reaching back out briefly, savoring the memory of Greg’s magic. 

When he sees Sally walk in, followed by Greg, he feels his heart skip a beat. Greg settles himself in the back like before, arms crossed defensively, the corners of his mouth turned down. Ah, Sally dragged him here. He is surprised that Greg would willingly come to the Matchmaking ceremony. Perhaps he was here just to support his friend? Greg’s eyes sweep across the room before looking up at Mycroft. 

Mycroft’s shoulders tense, and he feels captured by Greg’s stare. Satan, it has been years since he had been forced to deal with seeing Lestrade so many times in two weeks. Mycroft wets his bottom lip, and he sees a brilliant flash of amber across Greg’s brown eyes as they stare boldly at Mycroft’s mouth. His stomach clenches, and the room suddenly feels too small. There is want in Greg’s heated gaze, and Mycroft feels his magic clamor to reach out and wrap around Greg’s. To pull their bodies together and let their energies absorb into one another. 

But then he remembers the embarrassment and shame the last time they were close, the hurt that followed. It must show on his face because Greg is suddenly frowning, his eyes soft and concerned. Mycroft gives in to the urge to fidget slightly, and he adjusts his silver pentagram cufflinks. He knows he looks sharp in his dark suit with red pinstripes and blood-red tie. He tries to cling to feeling potent and in control, standing tall in front of his congregation but finds himself struggling not to feel like his awkward teenage-self falling over Greg Lestrade’s pretty face.

“Sir?” Anthea asks from his right. He steels his spine and decides that just because Greg is in town, that doesn’t change the fact that he’s bloody High Priest and favored by the Dark Lord. And right now, he has a job to do.

”Good evening,” Mycroft says, his voice rich and smooth, “ and welcome to the first part of our Lupercalia festival. As you are aware, the Matchmaking is tonight, and one by one, you will come here to the unholy fire and draw out a ribbon with your match’s name on it. We will continue until everyone has been matched.” He pauses and looks around the room. “Think wisely about your choice to come forward. If you are pulling a ribbon, you will be playing the part of the Wolf, and if your name is on the ribbon, you shall be the Red Hood. The Dark Lord may have already chosen the matches, but it’s your free will that decides the role.”

“And remember,” Mycroft gives a dark smile, and he can’t help it when his eyes flick briefly over to Greg before purring out, “the wolves are the ones who are hunted.” 

“Tomorrow night will be the Courting,” Mycroft continues, “and the following night we will Hunt. Now, when you feel ready, please approach the altar.”

One by one, members come up to him and reach their hands into the cavity of an ancient bear skull where an unholy fire burns and flickers. Anderson pulls Sally’s name out, Anthea pulls Alicia’s, Molly surprisingly pulls Mike’s name, and so it continues. There are a few witches left, and when Sally shoves Greg forward, Mycroft’s breath hitches. 

Greg walks up to stand in front of him, and Mycroft starts to tap his fingers apprehensively on his thigh but stops, curling his fingers into a fist, pressing it tightly against the fabric. While the altar hides his hands, it does not block sound, especially when a shifter is practically in his lap. But Greg doesn’t look at him; he just stares hesitantly at the small fire. 

“It won't harm you, Gregory,” Mycroft says softly and low enough only for Greg’s sensitive ears to hear, “you are still part of this coven.” 

Greg reaches his hand into the flickering flames, and for a brief moment, Mycroft fears he might have been wrong about Greg’s safety, as the flames flare brightly. He holds his breath in amazement as the fire seems to lick teasingly around Greg’s fingers, like a caress. Surely they didn’t react like that with anyone else tonight. He hears Greg snort an amused laugh before reaching in further to pull out a black ribbon. 

Strong tan fingers hold the ribbon out taunt, and Mycroft reads the name inscribed, glittering in argent ink, simultaneously with Greg. They both look at each other in shock, at least Mycroft thinks so; he’s not sure what his face is doing at the moment. Scrawled in a neat script is his name. _Mycroft Holmes._ But he didn't submit his name? Anthea breathes in sharply next to him, but when he glances at her, she looks smug? Pleased? There is a similar look on Alicia next to her, and Mycroft feels a chill go down the back of his neck. Was this their doing? He looks back at Greg in time for the other man to give him a devastating grin followed by a wink before he has to step aside for the next participant. 

The rest of the ceremony blurs by, and all Mycroft can think about is how the hell was he going to get out of this. After everyone had been matched, he tries to find Greg, but he is sidetracked by another member who wanted to go over a particular passage in the unholy bible. When he’s finally free, Greg is gone. 

Immediately, he stalks dangerously over to Anthea. Before he can even make an accusation, she smiles sweetly up at him and says, “Well, clearly, this is the Dark Lord’s will.” 

And he scoffs, “I highly doubt that.”

“Are you questioning the King of Hell, Your Excellency?” She asks, and Mycroft pales. He knows it's a trap, one that he cannot get out of. Of course, he doesn't question the will of their savior. He could withdraw, it’s his right, his choice, but it comes down to his own will against the Dark Lord’s potential wishes… Mycroft takes a moment before he resigns himself to his fate. Oh, he's going to curse those two meddling witches to heaven and back. 

*** 

Greg had wanted to speak to Mycroft after the matchmaking, but his body had been thrumming with so much restless energy and anticipation that a shift was inevitable. His skin itched and his bones ached, canines digging into his bottom lip. He barely made it home in time, stripping his clothes off on the back porch before taking off into the woods, four paws hitting the ground as he took off into the fading light. 

He ran for what felt like hours, mind racing with the thought that he matched with Mycroft fucking Holmes. He was secretly thrilled but terrified at the same time. The last time they matched, they were so young, and Greg had been pathetically excited. Sally always teased him over his not-so-secret crush on the older Holmes, and Greg ever faltered when he tried to ask Mycroft out. They hung out sure, they were friends, but every time he tried to tell the other how he just wanted to snog the living daylights out of him, he stumbled. Mycroft was so smart and gorgeous, and Greg was a half-breed abomination. He heard the wicked whispers behind his back at school. _Why is Lestrade even here? He’s not even a proper warlock. Animal._

He was hardly an ideal match for Mycroft Holmes of the prestigious Holmes family. The Holmes bloodline was well known all over the world, and they even had family ties to the Anti-Pope.

Then they had been paired, and Greg thought that his moment had come, but they never made it past the Courting night. He had arrived early to the meeting spot and laid out the blanket to wait, the ceremonial basket at his side. When Mycroft ran late, Greg opened the basket to grab one of the figs to eat, trying to calm his nerves. Only he was hit with a small curse as soon as he opened the basket lid and watched in panic as he started to shift, unable to stop. 

Back then, he had been embarrassed by his shifter half, and the thought of Mycroft stumbling upon him in this form, of his face twisting with disdain, was too much to bear, so he ran away. He later found out the curse was planted by some of the witches at school as a _prank,_ and while it eventually wore off, the damage had been done. Mycroft refused to speak to him the next day, and Greg’s heart shattered. For years he had assumed Mycroft rejected him for failing to deflect a simple curse, for being only half a warlock. 

Mycroft was everything Greg had wanted back then, and everything he still wants. Just being in the same town as him makes his soul feel whole again. There is no other person that feels so right to be close with. The way their magic always blended seamlessly. The way they just _fit_ , even if it’s just them arguing over the credibility of the magic in the mortals’ sci-fi shows. Even now, with just their awkward glances as communication, it still feels right. 

Greg runs until his four legs shake, and he pants, tongue lolling out as he trots back to his sister’s cottage. It’s dark when he shifts back and quietly sneaks into the house, careful not to wake anyone (although he suspects Ronnie knows what he was up to) and takes a shower to wash off the dirt of the forest. 

He’s walking into his room; white towel slung low around his hips, when Mycroft just pops into existence in the middle of the room. 

“Fuck!” Greg hisses and jumps, quickly closing the door behind him. _Oh, Satan,_ Ronnie is not going to let him live this down. 

Mycroft’s astral projection is not facing him, but towards the bedroom window, so Greg has a few seconds to take in the tall man in front of him. He’s still wearing the suit from earlier, and it’s tailored to his body perfectly. Greg always thought he was an arse man (and Mycroft did have a lovely arse), but _those legs,_ Greg had dreams about those legs. Mycroft’s shoulders are tense, and Greg wants to press his body against the other man, kiss at the back of his exposed neck at his hairline, and breathe him in. 

Then Mycroft’s body is shifting to turn, and Greg tries to sound scolding instead of fond, “Mycroft! You can’t just--” 

Greg starts at the same time Mycroft says, “I apologize, Gregory, I--”

And they both stop; Greg because Mycroft started to talk, and Mycroft because his mouth slams shut with an audible clack of teeth as he turns around. Greg tries not to smile at how the tips of Mycroft’s ears go red; he is well aware that is most likely due to his state of undress. Serves the bastard right, he thinks, popping by unannounced and all. Greg would have panicked and tried to cover up in the past, but he long ago grew into his awkward limbs. It was hard to be embarrassed when your schoolboy crush was staring at you with something akin to hunger. Younger Greg does a mental fist pump. 

Mycroft opens his mouth before closing it again, and Greg smirks. “What can I do for you, Mycroft?” he asks,leaning back against the door, hips slightly forward as his shoulder blades hit the solid surface behind him. The movement causes water droplets from his hair to run down his neck and shoulders. 

Mycroft’s gray eyes darken and follow their path before suddenly snapping up to meet Greg’s, and he clears his throat, “I just wanted to talk to you about.. we didn't get a moment to talk after the matchmaking--”

“Look,” Greg interrupts. A part of him is aching to have a do-over with Mycroft, but his brain’s rational part doesn’t want to force Mycroft into something that he will be uncomfortable with. “What happened in the past is in the past, right? You are not obligated to go through with this. You can always withdraw your name. But… it could be fun, yeah?” 

“But I did not add my name,” Mycroft says, frowning. 

“What?”

“I personally did not submit my name. I never do.”

Greg chuckles and pushes his damp hair back, “Well, I didn't either. Sally added mine.”

Mycroft nods, “I had suspected as such, and while I suspect Anthea and Alicia might have added mine, I cannot disregard the possibility that… _He_ added it.” 

“You think the Dark Lord added your name?”

“It’s possible, and as a High Priest, I cannot withdraw if it was his unholy will. My position doesn’t allow... that is not to say we have to adhere strictly to the rules we can -- I mean, we have to partake in some of the rituals but --,” Mycroft sighs, “I am not explaining this very well.”

“Mycroft, it's fine. I get it.”

“Do you?”

“Look, I know I’ve never fit in with the other witches, but it doesn't mean I don’t understand the pressures that come with the coven.”

“We do not have to do--”

“Myc-”

Mycroft makes a face, “Unholy _Lord_ , no one except Mummy has called me that since school.”

Greg laughs brightly, moving away from the door, and takes a step towards Mycroft, his towel dipping lower. Mycroft's eyes go wide, and Greg wishes the warlock was really in the room with him. He can see every detail, but there is no true presence in the room; he cannot hear a heartbeat or smell Mycroft’s familiar scent of cedar and ink, of dry smoky earth like uncut grass on a warm day. He sees a small sparrow-like bird land on the outside window sill behind Mycroft, and it stares at them. 

Greg looks up at Mycroft through his eyelashes, suddenly feeling timid, “Myc,” he says again and resists the urge to laugh when Mycroft makes the same scandalized face as before. 

“I think we should talk… about what happened... before. I need to explain what actually happened and not what you think happened--”

“You don’t have anything to explain to me, Gregory. I know being matched with me when we were younger was not something you wanted. I wasn’t well-liked and was hardly something worth looking at. I don’t blame you for running away.”

Greg frowns, “I didn’t run away.”

Mycroft sneers at the lie and rolls his eyes. 

Greg sees another swallow land next to the window, “Listen to me,” Greg licks his lips, “I didn’t run away on purpose,” he whispers fiercely, “I … I wanted to be with you, but I got scared. Something happened, and I --”

He cuts off as the third swallow lands, and this one pecks at the glass, “Fuck” he breathes, “You need to go.” One of the drawbacks of astral projection was that you had limited time before the psycopomps started to appear, eager little buggers that jumped at the chance to drag anyone they could get to the hereafter. The longer the duration, the greater the risk.

Mycroft looks behind him at the swallows staring at them with unnatural stillness, “I suppose you are right,” he looks back at Greg, “But I am serious about what I said. We do not have to do anything you do not want to do.”

“And what if I _want_ to participate _fully_?” Greg asks, lifting his chin in a challenge.

There is a heavy pause, and Greg shivers as Mycroft once again looks down his body and back up. He says slowly, “I am... not opposed to our full participation.” 

Greg gives what he knows is a predatory grin, “Then I will see you tomorrow for the Courting?”

Mycroft nods, “Yes. Good evening, Gregory.” 

“Mycroft…” Greg says softly. 

Mycroft looks at Greg questioningly, his apparition already starting to fade out. “You were always worth looking at.” The look of pleasant surprise on Mycroft’s face is the last thing Greg sees, and it leaves him grinning. 


	3. Courtship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait to post this but I found out I have to work some overtime the next few days (yay for customer service and the holidays said no one ever) so wanted to get this posted earlier. Enjoy!
> 
> A huge grateful nod (and bow) to trillian_jdc who put up with my many grammatical errors ❤❤
> 
> Mycroft's speech is pretty much word for word Father Blackwood's speech from the show. All credit to their writers for that. They just did a lovely job with the introduction of the courting ritual. I just switched out the oysters for chocolate since oysters in the woods? Ugh. No thanks (and this coming from someone who lives seaside.)

Greg is so bloody nervous that his fingers tremble as he does up the buttons on his red shirt. He wanted to make sure he looked nice tonight and was trying not to second guess himself. He even shaved his usual stubble, twice. Normally he didn’t bother, since his facial hair grew in much faster, and every time he shifted, he seemed to have more facial hair than previously. 

“I don’t know why you even bothered dressing up nice,” Ronnie says as she watches from the bedroom doorway, one hip pressed against the door jam. “It's not like you are going to be wearing any clothes…”

Greg knows she is teasing him, trying to get him to relax a bit, but nothing is going to help quell the way his gut is roiling inside of him. Sure, he had felt cocky the other night when Mycroft astral projected into his room, self-assured in the desire he saw on the other man’s face. Smug in the safety and comfort of his own territory. Now, with the moon one day fuller, his mind was a chaotic mixture of hope and fear. They were going to be on neutral grounds, out in the open with no place to hide. 

“Even if I have to take my shirt off,” Greg replies, “it’s called the night of unholy _abstinence_ for a reason, Ronnie.”

His sister rolls her eyes, “You know not everyone listens to that. Jim and I didn't.” She bites her lip, and Greg immediately feels guilty, getting ready to go out on what is technically considered a date while his sister sits at home alone, heartbroken. She must see the anguish on his face, because she is suddenly marching forward and cupping Greg’s cheeks in her soft hands, pulling his face down so their eyes are level.

“Gregory Lestrade,” she says sternly. “You are not to feel guilty for _anything_ , you hear me? What happened with Jim was not your fault.”

“I should have been here,” Greg argues.

She shakes her head, “No, you needed to leave when you did. It helped you to grow, to find a piece of yourself out there.”

“But it still wasn’t home. I left you to fend for yourself while I just fucked off to the city. I didn't even visit, Ronnie. Mum would have...”

Her eyes soften, and their color reminds Greg of rich forest moss and the thick algae on river rocks. “Mum would have understood,” she says, “more than anyone else, I think. You kept in touch, that’s what mattered, and you are here now, and that matters more.”

Greg’s nose itches, and his gaze blurs as he tries to hold back tears. He pulls her forward into an embrace and buries his face into her soft hair.

“You can’t put your life on hold just because you are here,” she continues, voice muffled by his chest. “Lupercalia is supposed to be _fun,_ Greg. It's okay to have fun and date while you are here, for however long you decided to stay. I just want you to be happy wherever you end up.”

Greg exhales a wet laugh, “When did you get so wise, kid?”

Ronnie pinches his side, and Greg yelps, letting her go. “You are only ten minutes older,” she laughs as she reaches up and tries to tame his ruffled hair. 

“I still can’t believe you got matched with _Father Holmes._ ”

“It’s still so weird that you call him that.”

“What? We _all_ call him that. He's our high priest, Greg.”

“I get that, yeah? It’s just…”

“For someone who had a crush on Father Gatiss when we were younger, I thought Father Holmes would be at the top of your kink list.”

Greg’s cheeks burn, and he groans, “Well, it is _now_ , fuck, why did you have to mention that? I was already nervous before, and now I’m--”

“Going to be half-naked in the woods with one of the most powerful warlocks between your legs?”

Greg presses a hand over her mouth, “For the love of Lilith, please stop talking. We are going to _talk_ , like adults.”

Ronnie says something that suspiciously sounds like, “and then fuck,” but he chooses to ignore it. She licks his hand, and Greg snatches it away, wiping it off on her shoulder.

“Brat,” he says, and she gives him a playful shove. Greg laughs and bats at her hands as he heads out the room towards the front door. 

“Are you sure this is okay?” he asks, and the role reversal from the other night, as Ronnie shoves him out of the cottage, is not lost on Greg.

“I’m sure. Go have fun snogging with _Father Holmes_.”

“Stop saying _that_.”

***

Mycroft lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding when Greg strolls out from the shadows of the tree line. Even though he knew Greg said he wanted to go through with this, a part of him feared the shifter would change his mind. His heart twists with a vivid recollection of when they were younger. When he was running late, rushing to meet up with Greg only to find the spot abandoned, followed by jeers from his schoolmates. “Looks like Lestrade didn't want you, after all, Nerdcroft. Don’t blame him, to be honest, just look at you.”

Before that failed night, they had been friends, hanging out together, hiding from Sherlock when they could. They were both outcasts at school, but he always thought Greg was more accepted based on his looks and ability to charm others with his friendly face and big eyes. After that night, however... they barely spoke. No more than a few awkward exchanges before Greg packed up and left. He thought Gregory had just been humoring his crush, that the night was an awful joke, but now...

_“You were always worth looking at.”_

Mycroft looks down to hide his face and stares at his shoes. While he had taken the occasional lover, there was no room for romance in his busy schedule. When he was not engaged in his High Priest and School Dean duties, he was usually in Hell trying to keep all nine circles in some semblance of order. Anthea had pointed out earlier in the day that regardless of how his name was submitted (he still has his suspicions), the Dark Lord had matched him with Gregory in the end. 

Now he can't deny the dreadful and undeniable fact that he feels hopeful. He wants a relationship with Greg or at least the opportunity. Sometimes he wished that he was mortal. Mortal dating traditions were so much more straightforward compared to their rituals of lust under the moon. He looks up to search for Greg again, and he sees the warlock leaning against a post a few yards from the rest of the coven that is starting to gather around Mycroft. The moonlight glimmers over Greg’s handsome face and highlights the streaks of silver in his hair. Their gazes meet, and Greg gives him a devilish look, eyes piercing the distance between them, mouth curving upwards. 

Mycroft looks away and clears his throat, getting the attention of the witches and warlocks around him. 

“Tonight,” he begins, his voice cold and clear. “You and your paramour shall go into the woods and re-enact the Courting. Each couple shall disrobe and anoint themselves and lie under this blessed Lupercalia moon, absorbing the potency of the Goddess Selene herself.” 

He looks pointedly at the grinning faces of Anthea and Alicia in front of him. “Abstinence is encouraged…” he says before giving a sly smile. “However, should couples be moved to unite, I'm sure the Dark Lord would not be opposed.”

Laughter and a few catcalls sound from the crowd. Mycroft refrains from rolling his eyes. 

“You shall find all the supplies you need in the baskets assigned to you. The milk and blood are for purification. The figs and chocolate represent virility and copulation. The rest of the supplies … well, depends on if you choose to abstain or not.”

There are more catcalls and one loud whoop. _Bloody Anderson_. Mycroft fixes the crowd with a stern look, voice commanding, “Stay together and do not stray too far; all manner of creatures stalk the night.”

With that, he raises his left hand and does a reverse cross against his chest, “Now with the Dark Lord’s blessing, let the Courting begin.” 

The coven breaks off into pairs, heading out into the woods. Anthea gives Mycroft a knowing look, one eyebrow raised, and a wicked grin before she goes. Greg strolls forward, and Mycroft stands his ground, taking in how Greg’s body shifts under his clothes, cataloging his hidden strength. 

“Mycroft,” Greg says, giving Mycroft a warm smile. 

“Good evening, Gregory.”

“Since when do we get chocolate instead of oysters?” Greg asks cheekily. 

“Since the ritual became less about fertility and more about…”

“Fucking?” 

Mycroft feels the tips of his ears go hot, “Quite.” 

The last of the coven has wandered off, leaving them alone. “Do you mind waiting one moment while I check the wards?” Mycroft asks. 

With one hand in his jeans pocket, Greg leans down and grabs the wicker basket at Mycroft’s feet, “No problem.”

Mycroft gives a small nod and closes his eyes, reaching out into the unknown with his mind. He can feel the wards he set up earlier, humming with energy. He wasn’t kidding when he warned the parishioners about the dangers of the woods. The Lupercalia moon lasted a week, and it drew out all sorts of creatures. He raises one hand and plucks at the air, fingertip ghosting one of the ward’s invisible strings that spread out over the area like a spiderweb. At his touch, the string vibrates but remains taut and strong.

Greg lets out a small gasp next to him, and Mycroft looks at him questioningly. Greg nods to the empty air in front of him, “It’s beautiful.”

“You can _see_ the ward?”

Greg shakes his head, “Not anymore, but when you touched, it lit up and rippled, like when you toss a rock in a pond. Only lasted a few seconds.”

“That's... extraordinary,” Mycroft says, fascinated, “even I cannot see it.”

“You can’t? Then how do you know where it is?”

“I just know. I can sense where it is, but I cannot physically see it. That goes for all my wards. The fact that you saw it, even briefly, is quite impressive.”

Greg gives a sheepish shrug, “Not as impressive as the man who crafted the ward.”

Mycroft gives Greg a small smile, and Greg huffs out an embarrassed laugh. “Come on,” he says, tossing his head towards the trees.

They find a clearing within the thicket of the trees, the moonlight illuminating the area. Greg lays out the plush blanket on the ground, kicking off his shoes, and Mycroft follows suit. Greg’s bare toes flex into the thick blanket while Mycroft is still in his socks. 

“Mmm, I don't remember the blankets being this nice,” Greg hums.

“They’re not,” Mycroft sniffs indignantly, “it’s from my home. If we are to lie on the ground, I’d rather not feel all the sticks and rocks under us.”

Greg chuckles, amusement on his face, “Brilliant.” His eyes sweep the length of Mycroft’s body. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone wear a _suit_ to Lupercalia before.”

“I am a _High_ _Priest_ ,” Mycroft scoffs, “Just because this ritual is more carnal than most doesn't mean I should neglect my appearance.”

The teasing light in Greg’s eyes shifts, turning dark and assessing, as his gaze sweeps across Mycroft again but slowly and with hunger. 

“No complaints here,” Greg murmurs, his voice deep and husky. 

Mycroft knows the apples of his cheeks are red, and when Greg starts to unbutton his shirt, the back of his neck feels warm. Of course, he had seen Greg in nothing but a towel the other night, but this was different. This was real, and he was going to have to _touch_ the other man. Unholy Lord, he was going to have Greg’s hands on _him._

Greg is watching him as he takes off his jacket and asks, “Won’t your clothes get dirty?”

Mycroft holds his jacket out behind him and lets it go, but it doesn't drop to the ground. It stays there, suspended in the air. Greg’s eyebrows quirk up, impressed. Mycroft takes off his waistcoat and does the same thing. His cuff links go into his trouser pocket, and before he can start undoing the buttons of his shirt, Greg’s red shirt is being shoved in his direction, a smirk on Greg’s lips. 

Mycroft can’t help the small laugh and hangs Greg’s shirt next to his own hovering items. He tries his best not to look at Greg, looking down as his fingers move across his buttons. He’s aware of Greg’s eyes on him, and he swallows hard. He knows his running habit helps keep him in shape, but his form is nothing compared to the shifter's toned body.

Greg must sense his unease, because he is turning around to give Mycroft privacy, crouching over the basket and pulling out the vials of milk and blood along with a cloth.

“Doesn’t it take a lot of concentration to keep up a spell like that?”

Mycroft shakes his head even though Greg cannot see him, “Of course not, it's hardly a drain on my energy. I have multiple other spells running concurrently as well, but I have yet to find a limit to what I can do.” It sounds like a boast, but for Mycroft, it is a simple truth. He didn't know if it was his own natural abilities or the blessing of the Dark Lord that seemed to give him unlimited stores of magic. 

“Well, that’s lucky for you,” Greg says. The muscles of his shoulders and back ripple under tan skin as he stands up, and Mycroft's mouth feels dry. 

“I always struggled to maintain the simplest of spells,” Greg turns around, and his eyes roam over Mycroft’s chest; an invisible heat follows the caress of Greg's eyes on his body. Mycroft isn't sure if the moonlight’s reflection makes Greg's eyes appear more liquid amber than brown or if it's something _more._

Mycroft licks his bottom lip, “I have a theory for that.”

Greg moves, his body seeming to stalk towards Mycroft, “yeah?”

“Y-yes.”

Greg holds out the vial of blood, “Tell me about it after we get this part over with. I never liked the whole blood sacrifice part of this festival.”

Mycroft takes the container from Greg, “Imported from the local butcher, I assure you.” Mycroft says, “It’s more about symbolism than actual sacrifices these days.”

“Good to know,” Greg says, smiling and nods, “you go first.”

Mycroft is grateful, not quite ready to have Greg’s touch on him but to get his hands on Gregory? He’s been ready for that for _years_. He shuffles closer to Greg and uncaps the container, dipping two slender fingers into the red liquid before painting it across Greg’s collar bones. 

Greg sucks in a sharp breath and says in surprise, “It’s warm.”

“Magic,” Mycroft replies. Greg bites back a grin, a sharp tooth digging into the corner of his plush bottom lip, and Mycroft wants to pull his lip free and kiss it, lick it, nibble it. 

Mycroft redips his fingers, and Greg’s stomach tenses as Mycroft slides his fingers from Greg's sternum to his navel, stopping before the line of dark hair that continues down into Greg’s jeans. Mycroft can feel Greg’s magic vibrating, shifting and swirling like a brewing storm, but he doesn't sense any stress from Greg, just… anticipation? 

He finishes with a slide of his fingers across Greg's forehead and saying, “By Lilith's blood.”

He hands the vial to Greg as Greg does the same to him, touching him with hot rough fingers. Goosebumps break out along his arms, and his cock gives an interested twitch, much to Mycroft’s embarrassment. He’s barely been touched, and his body already wants Greg to ravish him. When Greg finishes, he is handed the milk bottle and cloth, which Mycroft soaks and tries not to wince when milk droplets splash on his trousers. 

He slowly wipes the blood off Greg’s clavicles, “By Lucifer's love,” he says thickly. The cloth turns a light shade of pink, but all that is left on Greg’s chest and stomach are small drops of cream against bronzed skin. Unholy hell, he wants to lick the milk off of Greg, taste his warmth. Mycroft clears his throat and repeats, “by Lucifer’s love,” and wipes Greg's forehead clean. 

When it’s Greg's turn, Mycroft can't help but shiver, a tremor that ripples through him as the warm milk runs down his chest. Hungry desire spirals low in his stomach, and the tangible bond between them tightens. There is no mistaking the supernatural glow in Greg’s eyes now, not this close. Like a harvest moon, golden copper eyes bore into his, and Mycroft feels entrapped, frozen in place. He is one of the world's most powerful warlocks, and here he is powerless by a single look.

A low growl emanates from the back of Greg’s throat. For a moment, Mycroft thinks Greg will bite him with the way his upper lip curls, exposing sharp canines. Nothing like a vampire, not long, just more pointed, more savage, and his heart leaps to his throat at the flash of white teeth. Except Greg just presses a gentle kiss into the hollow of Mycroft's throat, his nose gliding up his neck, breathing in Mycroft’s scent. 

“We are going to do this right,” Greg whispers huskily into his jawline, lips brushing against his skin. “But you have _no idea_ how much I fucking want you. You are so bloody gorgeous, and the power you weld is absolutely intoxicating.”

Before Mycroft can respond, too busy feeling like he was sucker-punched, Greg moves away, taking the heat of his body with him. Greg is then lying down on the blanket, with his right arm tucked under his head while his other hand rests on his stomach. Mycroft can’t ignore the bulge in Greg’s jeans, and he flicks his eyes up to meet Greg's, and Greg _winks._

 _Hell help me,_ Mycroft thinks and lays down next to Greg, his movements stiff and jerky. He doesn't know where to put his hands and settles on placing them at his sides. The knuckles of his right hand brush the skin of Greg’s hip bone. 

The moon is bright above them, inching closer to fullness, _waxing gibbous._ There’s a scream followed by a high pitched laugh off in the distance, and Greg smiles in response, “Sounds like someone is having fun.” 

Mycroft hums. 

“So, you said you had a theory?” Greg asks. 

“A theory?”

“About why I'm a piss poor warlock.”

Mycroft frowns, “You are an extraordinary warlock, Gregory.”

Greg groans, “you don't have to pretend, Myc.”

Mycroft forgets that he's supposed to be feeling awkward and rolls over towards Greg, propping himself up on his elbow. He looks down at Greg’s wide eyes. “I am not one to give false flattery. I might not be able to see your magic, but I can feel it, and it’s powerful. Very powerful.” Greg looks away with a frown on his soft lips.

“Witches are born with the ability to harness and use magic. While some of us have some inherent magic within us, we must draw from other sources. I, for example, draw my power from the Dark Lord, from Hell. Other covens may draw their powers from other gods and goddesses. Shifters draw their magic from the Earth, the moon, Nature itself.”

“You’re stating the obvious here, Myc.”

Mycroft ignores him. “You are unique in the fact that you have two sources to draw your power from. I think the issue you have is that you limit yourself by only drawing from one source at a time. You think you have to choose when you don’t.”

“It's not like I actively try to pick. It just happens.”

“That's understandable, but have you ever tried to draw from both at the same time?”

It’s Greg's turn to raise himself on his elbow, facing Mycroft, “I didn’t think it was allowed?”

“Why would it not be? While the Dark Lord likes to play games, he wouldn't let you have access to his power if he felt that you would be a threat if you were to use your full powers.”

Greg squints at him, “Do you know something I don’t? I know you are on the Dark Lord’s council.”

Mycroft laughs, “Please, it's a minor position, I assure you. I just know how he thinks. If he did not want you to have the potential, you simply wouldn't have access.”

When skepticism remains on Greg's face, Mycroft sits up and tugs on Greg's elbow to have the other man do the same, both of them on their knees.

“Let us try an experiment,” Mycroft says and holds out one hand. He takes a deep breath and blows out across his palm. A small green flame ignites in his hand, and he holds it out to Greg, “call the flame to your hand but don't use earth magic.”

Greg shakes his head, “Uh, it's probably not a good idea to play with fire in a forest.”

“Gregory, trust me, it won’t burn you.”

Greg holds out his palm and closes his eyes, brows furrowed in concentration. A light sheen of sweat breaks along his hairline, and very slowly, the flame moves from Mycroft to hover over Greg's. Greg opens his eyes and flashes a victorious grin, but Mycroft just nods and says, “Now change its color using earth magic.”

Greg doesn't close his eyes this time, but he still focuses intently on the emerald flame before it slowly changes to a bright gold starting from the base to the flickering tips. Again Greg grins, and Mycroft returns the smile. 

“Good, now let's do something a little bit harder. Try with earth magic to change its shape and hold it.” Greg bites into his bottom lip hard and grunts in frustration when nothing happens. “Try Hell’s source,” Mycroft suggests. The fire bulges a bit but then settles, still not changing. 

“I don't understand how this is going to help-”

Mycroft cuts him off, “Now use both sources, at the same time. Concentrate. Imagine what shape you want, and weave your magic together.”

Greg looks at Mycroft, a flicker of doubt in his eyes before closing them and breathing in deeply, shoulders relaxing.

Mycroft reaches his hand forward and touches Greg’s knee in encouragement, “If you cannot trust yourself, then trust me. I am never wrong when it comes to magic.”

Greg’s lips curve into a smirk, the fire in his palm painting his face in gold. He’s so beautiful it makes Mycroft’s heart ache. 

For a moment, nothing happens, and then the flame is suddenly, rapidly expanding to the size of a small cauldron before bursting into hundreds of multicolored coin-sized balls, glinting like brilliant gems and precious stones. Each one morphs into a tiny glowing goldfish as they swim around them in an invisible current, casting shadows across their skin, little fins flicking like flames. 

Greg gives an exclamation of delight, and his grin is so blindingly gorgeous and happy that Mycroft’s heart sings, and he’s moving without thought, impelled by his need to kiss the brilliant warlock. 

In one forward motion, Mycroft is pressed against Greg’s chest, knees touching as he sinks his fingers into Greg’s soft hair and pulls him in for a kiss. It's a heady sensation to feel Greg's lips moving against his, echoing his desire. Warm hands slide against the hollow of his back, keeping him from moving away, as if Mycroft is foolish enough to do so. His tongue traces the fullness of Greg's lips, and when Greg opens his mouth, they both groan. 

Mycroft breathes in Greg, a warm inhalation of oxygen to defrost his soul. He’s so caught up in the sensation of their chests rubbing against each other that he barely registers the fiery goldfish disappearing. Their tongues fight for dominance, and Greg's sharp teeth nip at his lower lip. Mycroft moans before melting in Greg’s arms. They kiss for what feels like hours, noses brushing, and lips teasing. 

Eventually, Mycroft has to pull away; his mouth feels bruised and swollen. Greg’s lips look the same, and the skin around his mouth is tinged pink from Mycroft’s beard. Greg’s hooded eyes glow an unnatural, brilliant copper filled with tiny flecks of gold, shimmering like stars around a dark pupil, which is now more vertical in shape. Greg licks his bottom lip slowly as if he’s trying to savor the taste of Mycroft. 

”Your eyes…” Mycroft breathes out.

Greg grimaces and closes his eyes, dark lashes sweeping down to kiss the top of his red cheeks. When he opens them again, his eyes are back to their usual, rich brown with blown circular pupils.

“Sorry,” he croaks, “I usually have better control over that.” 

“No,” Mycroft says quickly, cupping Greg’s face and running his thumbs reverently over Greg’s eyebrows. There are a few silver hairs in his right eyebrow. “Your eyes are extraordinary.” 

Greg’s hands are still on Mycroft’s back, and his fingers twitch, digging into his flesh. Greg closes his eyes again, the blush spreading across his nose and down his neck. Mycroft kisses each eyelid softly, “You do not need to _control_ yourself around me, Gregory. I am fully aware of your nature, and I find it breathtaking. You are truly magnificent.” 

Greg leans down to hide his face in Mycroft's neck, arms shifting to envelop Mycroft into a tight hug. “Thank you,” Greg whispers wetly against his skin. Mycroft returns the hug, savoring the slide of his fingers over Greg’s back. 

Eventually, they break apart after their knees whine in protest. Greg sits down with his legs crossed as he roots around in the basket to pull out the chocolate and figs. He raises his eyebrows when he sees a bottle of red wine and looks at Mycroft questioningly. 

Mycroft smiles and shrugs, “Also from my home.”

They laugh and talk together as they eat bits of chocolate and the figs and drink straight from the wine bottle. To Mycroft's horror, he didn’t pack wine glasses, but it was quickly forgotten when Greg places the bottle to his lips and drinks. Mycroft’s eyes observe the line of his throat as he swallows. 

Eventually, they find themselves on their backs, lying side by side again but touching as close as possible. Greg has one of Mycroft's hands in his, and he traces his fingertips over its contours. They lie in comfortable silence but Mycroft can practically hear the gears turning in the other man's head, loud and ticking. 

“Penny Dreadful for your thoughts?” Mycroft asks. 

Greg looks over at him and smiles, “Just thinking about how different this is than last time.”

Mycroft snorts, “I should hope so, considering we are no longer teenagers.”

Greg laughs and rolls his body so he's half on top of Mycroft, while most of his weight is on his left elbow next to Mycroft's right shoulder. He swings his left leg to lay across Mycroft's thighs, and Mycroft curls the fingers of his left hand behind Greg’s knee. Mycroft welcomes the heat radiating from Greg’s body and the easy smile on Greg’s lips. 

“Well, this is _definitely_ different,” Greg says and runs his fingernails down Mycroft’s cheek, playing with the short hairs of his beard. 

“Anthea said it made me look distinguished. It also has the added bonus of annoying Sherlock.”

Greg’s laugh is deep and warm as he dips his head to scrape his teeth against Mycroft’s chin, “I _love_ it, but I am rather biased when it comes to you.”

Mycroft is late to stop the flicker of doubt on his face, he feels his eyebrows twitch and his lips frown before gaining back control of his face, but it’s too late. 

Greg’s smile vanishes wiped away and replaced by a remorseful look. “Myc… what happened last time.” He presses a finger to Mycroft's mouth, stopping him from speaking. “No, I need to explain properly. You have no idea how over the bloody moon I was to be matched with you that night. I had wanted to ask you out so many times that even _Sherlock_ teased me about it, and let me tell you, having an eleven-year-old telling you to man up is embarrassing.

“So when I finally had the chance, believe me, I wanted that night to go well. I know most see it as a no-strings-attached hookup, but I wanted more than that. I wanted to be with you, so much.”

Mycroft bites his bottom lip, eyes searching Greg’s face looking for any signs of deception or half-truths, but he finds none. After so many years convincing himself that Greg had played a cruel joke on him, it’s hard to believe what Greg is saying. 

“But why weren’t you there? Why did you stop talking to me after?”

Greg sighs, “The guys from school cursed the bloody basket, so when I opened it, the curse caused me to shift. I wasn’t able to shift back. Back then, I was very self-conscious about my shifter half… I still am. I thought everyone saw me as less, a poorly made warlock, and I didn’t want to see the look on your face when you saw me like that... so I ran.”

Mycroft always knew Greg was shy about his shifting. Even when they were younger, Greg didn’t like anyone to talk about his animal nature. Of course, that didn't stop Sherlock from continually asking him questions about it. He only saw a glimpse of Greg’s fox form once, when he was running with Sherlock’s familiar, Rosie. The pair ran so fast into the woods that Mycroft only saw a glimpse of black and silver. He’s suddenly upset that he never told Gregory that he found his ability to shift fascinating. That every day Greg hung out with him, Greg always saw himself as less and not as an equal, and Mycroft had the ability to resolve that with a few choice words and assurances. 

“I never saw you like that, as less than,” Mycroft says, moving his hand from Greg's knee to cup the side of his face. His thumb brushes against the wet corner of Greg's eye. “I am sorry that I made you feel like that. I knew how the others teased you, and I should have said something.”

Greg turns his head into Mycroft's palm and kisses his skin, “You were teased too, I didn’t expect you to stand up for me. Just being my friend was good enough.”

“I understand why you ran. I knew you had shifted since your clothes had been left behind. I would have waited for you, but there was a crowd waiting for me, they said you finally realized that being with me was an offense. When you refused to talk to me the next day, I thought they were right. That it was a cruel trick.”

Greg tilts his head so Mycroft’s hand slides into his hair, and he closes his eyes. The silver streaks glint in the moonlight while Mycroft's fingers run through his hair. 

“I didn't play a trick on you, and I was embarrassed after. I didn’t know how to come back from that, and then the longer I waited, the more awkward it got. I thought you hated me at that point. School was done soon after, my parents were gone, Ronnie had Jim and I thought I had lost you... There was nothing left for me anymore, so I moved to London. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but I never stopped thinking about you. I always held onto this daydream of us being together, somehow. I’m sorry for being an idiot.”

Happiness fills Mycroft's heart and he smiles gently, “I am sorry for being an idiot as well.”

They both look at each other. Mycroft feels the guilt and insecurities from the past fade into nothingness and judging by Greg’s relaxing body, the same thing is happening to him. A mixture of relief and longing settles on Greg’s face.

Mycroft wets his dry bottom lip, “While I am also sorry for your sister’s marriage…” he slides his hand from the back of Greg's head to his nape. “I am very glad you came back,” and with that, he pulls Greg down for another kiss. It's softer than before, and Greg melts into Mycroft’s mouth. He shifts so he's straddling Mycroft, his hands on either side of Mycroft’s head, pressing into the plush blanket. 

Mycroft's fingertips trace the hard muscles of Greg’s biceps, shoulders, and upper back, where his shoulder blades shift. Greg’s skin is hot and smooth, a thin layer of sweat forming as Mycroft's fingers glide over Greg’s body. The kiss quickly becomes heated like before, sizzling and heavy. 

Mycroft’s hands dip lower down the length of Greg’s back, pressing him down. They both groan as their clothed erections press together. Greg parts his lips and Mycroft is ready, tongue sweeping into his mouth to taste him. It's a fight for dominance and control with sharp teeth and punishing lips. It’s wet, hot, and filthy. Mycroft sucks Greg’s bottom lip into his mouth and opens his own eyes in time to watch the brilliant glow flare-up in Greg’s. He feels a smug satisfaction that he is able to break Greg's control. He lets Greg’s lip go with a slow drag of his teeth against the abused flesh. 

Greg growls and ruts his hips down into Mycroft’s, and Mycroft moans. Sweet Satan, this man was going to kill him. His cock pulses and strains against the confines of his trousers, rutting against Greg’s hard cock, and the painful friction is delicious. He pulls Greg back in for a kiss, his tongue tracing Greg’s sharp canines, and he can’t help the shudder that runs through his body. The reminder of who Greg is, what he is and the power that is coiled tight under the surface is heady and enthralling. 

At the Hunt tomorrow, Mycroft will be in the role of the Hunter with Greg the prey, and the thought makes Mycroft even harder. He wants Greg to fight back, to snarl and bare his teeth. He wants the clash of their powers and bodies. He wants to dominate and be dominated in return, pushing and pulling their passion and desire. He doesn’t want to tame Gregory, oh no, he wants to breathe the other man in deep, taste the wilderness of his soul, and live in it. 

Mycroft throws his head back to gasp for breath, and Greg takes the opportunity to bite along Mycroft’s hair-roughed jawline to nose right under his ear. They are pressed together from navel to cock, and Mycroft digs his fingers into Greg’s hips, holding him, as he grinds himself upwards. Greg is still holding his chest off Mycroft with his elbows, shoulder blades angled as he leans his head down further to nose along Mycroft's neck. Hot puffs of air caress Mycroft's skin where Greg is panting between kisses, their bodies still undulating against each other. 

“Fuck,” Greg groans into Mycroft's pulse point, “Does coming in my jeans like a bloody teenager break tonight's rule?”

“It does,” Mycroft says, chuckling, “I'm afraid if we do not stop soon then I shall be in need of clean trousers.”

Greg huffs and presses a hard, closed-mouth kiss against Mycroft before rolling off of him reluctantly and flopping down on his back hard and panting. Mycroft wants to cry at the loss of Greg’s body. “No, come back,” he thinks, but he knows that they need to cool off else they go past the point of no return. His body is thrumming with need, his lips swollen, his heart raw. Before he can get too deep into his own thoughts, Greg is taking his hand again, holding it, curling his sweaty fingers between his. 

“I hope you know how happy I am,” he says, grinning widely. His eyes are still glowing with vertical pupils, teeth sharp and glinting in the moonlight. His hair is sticking up from Mycroft’s fingers, and there is a lovely flush to Greg’s skin. Mycroft’s heart thumps, and he _knows_ he’s in love with this exceptional being, always has been. 

“I’m not sure what the future holds,” Greg continues, “but I want to be with you.”

Yes, Mycroft thinks. Move-in with me. Stay with me forever, never leave. I cannot bear the thought of you leaving this town again. I don't want to feel the connection between us close off again through distance and misunderstanding. I need you to _breathe_. I don't know how I’ve lived this long without you. _I love you._ But instead, he just mirrors Greg’s happy smile and says, “I find that very agreeable. I want to be with you as well.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. The Hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, at the end of this story. Enjoy!
> 
> A final huuuuuuge thank you to trillian_jdc for her lovely suggestions/comments and for taking the time to beta this story for me. I really cannot thank you enough. 
> 
> Happy New Year, Everyone! :D

“I need Garret to stay in town,” Sherlock says as he strides into Mycroft’s office; a gust of wind flickers the flames of the fireplace. _Dramatic_. 

Mycroft glances up from the scrolls spread out on his desk and sighs, “Once again, brother mine, I ask that you please knock before storming my office like a mountain troll.”

Sherlock tuts dismissively as he strides up to Mycroft and snatches a scroll from the desk before Mycroft can pull it from his reach. “Sherlock,” Mycroft warns. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes as he looks over the scroll, “Ah, Asmodeus and Beelzebub are having a bit of a domestic, I see. Tell me, do the _Plague Kings_ still claim they operate independently of the Dark Lord? Or have you finally brought them under your heel?”

Mycroft leans back against the black leather of his chair, and the corner of his mouth curls wickedly, “If it is their wish to believe they are free agents....” he trails off, taking in Sherlock’s smug expression and narrows his eyes. “Why are you here exactly?”

“I am here to make sure you don’t get cold feet and run Lestrade off again.”

Mycroft sneers, “I am not getting _cold_ _feet._ I am merely--”

“You _are_. You haven’t slept, going by the state of your hair and the shadows under your eyes. You are distracting yourself with trivial matters,” Sherlock shakes the scroll in his hand, “that someone on the witches’ council could easily handle. There are chocolate hobnob crumbs on your cuff, which means you’ve broken into your secret stash. Evidently, you are stressed and attempting to eat your _feelings_.” Sherlock says, coolly. 

Mycroft’s shoulders tense at the deduction, lips pressing together in a frown. Last night with Gregory had ended with unspoken declarations expressed in soft tender kisses and lingering hands. Gregory’s thumbs had brushed against the quick pulse of Mycroft’s wrists before gently kissing him, a shy teasing smile on Gregory's lips when they eventually parted. Mycroft had been in a happy schoolboy daze, lips curled upwards until he got back to his office. It only took an hour before the self-doubt started to creep in, blackening his mood and worrying at his heart. There are too many “what if” scenarios building up in his mind. 

Mycroft avoids Sherlock’s knowing gaze, “How is your mortal Dr. Watson doing?” he asks. 

“Don't try to change the subject,” Sherlock snaps, and then he sighs softly, “You have also considered performing a cord-cutting spell.” He gestures at the two candles attached by a singular wick sitting at the corner of Mycroft’s desk. “Really, Mycroft?”

The sudden change in Sherlock’s tone, the unspoken concern, has Mycroft giving a small helpless shrug. He wasn’t really thinking about performing the spell and severing his heart from Gregory’s entirely, but it is nice to know one’s options. If there was one thing that Mycroft truly feared, it was matters of the heart, for he had no control over the damned organ. It had already been wounded the first time by Gregory, and he wasn’t sure he could handle a second blow. 

Sherlock clears his throat and tosses the scroll back down in front of Mycroft, “If you have failed to see the Dark Lord’s unholy grand scheme, then maybe _I am_ the smart one.”

“Have you been drinking unmarked potions again?” 

Sherlock scoffs, ignoring the question, “Do you honestly think everything that has happened the past two months has been a coincidence? That Lestrade’s brother-in-law just up and left with a single note? Just _disappeared_? That one single event causing Lestrade to come back to town after years of avoiding it? For not only his name to be put forth for Lupercalia but yours as well? Meddling teachers or not, the Dark Lord makes the matches; you know he likes playing matchmaker. Don’t just observe but see, brother. You are highly valued by our Lord. Do you think he would allow harm to come to you or your heart?”

Mycroft opens his mouth, but it slams shut with a hard click of his teeth. He tries again, “Are you… are you suggesting the Dark Lord upturned Veronica’s marriage so Gregory would come back and be available for my attentions?”

“Oh, please, you hated Jim. Everyone hated Jim. She’s going to be happier in the end, you know. Rosie says her aura is already so much brighter. Maybe the Dark Lord found out Jim was a Caliban sympathizer. It's a bit not good to be friends with someone who wants to overthrow Satan and take the throne of Hell. Or maybe Jim was just a convenient pawn to manipulate for his ultimate goal. Does it really matter in the end?”

There’s silence as Sherlock lets Mycroft digest the feast of information given to him. Mycroft appreciates the moment, as it gives him time to piece together the timeline of events and analyze them. He doesn’t like to be manipulated; he usually pulls the strings and pre-arranges the cards on the table. He’s not the one who is supposed to be in the _dark_ about these matters. He allows himself to feel the brief flash of anger for the interference in his personal life, but it quickly fades when he thinks about how happy he’s been since Gregory has been back in town. How complete he has felt, how _right_. 

Sherlock walks over to Mycroft’s bookshelf and starts to skim over the titles, fingertips gliding over the faded spines. 

“Why do you need Gregory to stay in town?” Mycroft asks. 

“Can’t I just want a friend?” Sherlock replies, refusing to turn around. 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow and holds back a grin at the twitch in Sherlock’s shoulders. Finally, Sherlock turns around and huffs petulantly. 

“Fine. With Inspector Gregson retiring, I need someone else to let me help with cases. It’s not like _Donovan_ will.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. 

“What makes you think Gregory would want to stay and work here?” Mycroft asks. 

“What makes you think he won't?” Sherlock challenges. 

Before Mycroft can stop it, a plan is already forming in his mind: a simple _suggestion_ to the right people with pre-filled paperwork for a work transfer. He knows Gregory turned down a promotion back in London... 

Sherlock smirks victoriously, and Mycroft hates how easily Sherlock can read him. “Well, my job here is done. Try to get some sleep before tonight.” Sherlock pulls his jacket tight around his body and flips up the collar as he walks towards the door. It's not even cold enough outside to justify the theatrics. Mycroft shakes his head fondly. Before Sherlock leaves, he turns to Mycroft one last time, “Happy Hunting, _Blood._ ” 

*******

Greg can taste the tension in the air, thick and sweet like a fruit crumble or mulled wine. It's not just his energy thrumming beneath his skin but also the crowd around him; the coven’s combined energy pulsates through the air. They are in the same clearing where they gathered the other night, but this time torches, lit with hellfire, surround the area. Half of the coven are barely dressed, wearing only thin dresses or just trousers. The _wolves_ are also wearing wolf headpieces; pelts of furs line their shoulders and trail down their backs.

Greg himself is just wearing dark jeans with no headpiece. He knows he will only be donning them for a short period anyway. He doesn't plan to make the hunt _that_ easy for Mycroft. If the warlock is insistent on accepting _all_ of him, he must accept Greg’s home field advantage.

The other half, _the hoods_ , are dressed in provocative outfits. Sally dons a white lace dress that hugs her slender frame, enhancing the striking red cloak and hood clasped at her throat. Greg was the reluctant participant for that particular shopping outing, but he has to admit she is alluring. He’s grateful he can get away with just jeans. Everyone is currently playing their respective parts except Mycroft, who is just _more_.

Predictably, Mycroft is dressed in a tailored suit, the fabric fitting perfectly to his tall, lean form. While the other hoods are wearing crimson cloaks, the Master of the Hunt is wearing a velvet suit so dark it could be black if not for light from the flickering torches that highlight the colored fabric. The crisp white shirt and dark silver waistcoat underneath the jacket serve as a stark contrast to the deep blood red jacket. There is no tie tonight; the top buttons of Mycroft’s shirt are open, exposing the pale, delicate hollow of his throat, a tease of flesh. 

There is a rustle of feathers on the wind, and Greg takes notice of the snowy barn owl that lands on a tree branch to the High Priest’s right. _Irene_ , Greg thinks, and he feels the owl’s large black eyes on him, accessing and calculating. He remembers fleeting moments of Mycroft’s familiar being around in the past, but she kept her distance for the most part. Irene only stayed close if Mycroft’s focus was compromised. Greg fights back a smile, his cheeks flaming as he looks down at his bare feet. Since the Master of the Hunt is _participating_ in said hunt, then yes, his focus would probably be compromised. That means Mycroft is entrusting her to keep watch on the coven, and his attention will be solely on Greg and Greg alone. Greg feels a warm tingle journey down from the back of his neck to his toes.

The quiet murmuring among the coven suddenly stops, and Greg looks up. His eyes meet Mycroft’s as the other man nods towards him, _wait_ they seem to say, so Greg tilts his chin in response. He will wait. 

“Welcome, all, to the final night of the Lupercalia,” Mycroft says, his voice commanding.

“Tonight Hoods hunt Wolves; Witches hunt Witches. The outcome of the hunt will determine the year ahead. Will it be bountiful or nugatory? Fruitful or fallow? Tonight we hunt, and we are hunted, releasing our blessed magics into the night.” 

There are whoops and hollers from the crowd. Mycroft nods towards the coven, “Be safe and vigilant as tonight we dine on the energy of the moon,” Mycroft’s eyes flick upwards, meeting Greg's, “and each other.”

Someone howls from the back. Mycroft takes a deep breath, as if readying himself for battle, and pronounces, “Let the Hunt begin.”

The torches that have been passively flickering flare to life and grow in brilliance, a battle horn blares through the night, and just like that, the witches and warlocks take off into the night. Greg stays, knowing Mycroft will want to make sure the wards he has set are secure. As the coven scatters into the night with laughter and screams, Greg remains standing still, breathing deep as he gazes at Mycroft's imposing frame. 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow before closing his eyes and reaching out a hand to pluck at the invisible wards around them, except Greg can see the surge of light generated from Mycroft’s fingertip. It ripples like a shockwave out from Mycroft’s finger as he strokes the protective web. Greg can’t help the shudder that runs through his body; the potency is intense; the power he feels in front of him is heart-stopping. 

Mycroft’s lashes flutter against his pale cheeks, and Greg almost forgets to breathe as those pebble slate eyes burn into his. Mycroft’s eyes slowly, oh so slowly, travel downwards to his bare chest. Greg feels the gaze as if it were a tangible touch, and he shifts his stance, muscles coiling with anticipation. Mycroft’s eyes meet Greg’s again, the other man's lips curl into a smirk, and Greg knows that the game has been set. He takes off into the woods with breathless abandon. 

Greg is running, bare feet floating across the forest floor as he dodges between trees and over roots. It’s thrilling and terrifying all at once. He wants to be caught, to be taken, but at the same time, he wants to fight, to give Mycroft a challenge. Suddenly, he feels the air pressure in front of him shift, and he pivots his weight, feet digging into the dirt as he turns sharply to avoid Mycroft’s form teleporting in front of him. Unlike astral projection, Mycroft is moving his whole body, trying to calculate Greg’s movements and get ahead. 

After a few redirections, Greg allows himself to slam into Mycroft, relishing in the surprised “Oof” that is forced from Mycroft’s chest as he pushes the other man against a tree. Before Mycroft can respond, Greg presses his mouth against the taller man's, forcing his tongue into his warm mouth, tasting the subtle flavor of mulled wine. Greg grins at the discovery and nips at Mycroft's bottom lip before darting away, back into the night, leaving Mycroft flustered. _Come chase me,_ the wind whispers. 

Their game continues, both equally matched. Greg’s natural connection to his earth magic is effectual against Mycroft’s warlock powers. There is an eternal push and pull of their forces: when one tips the scale, the other balances it right back. Mycroft’s magical stamina and ability to predict Greg’s trajectory counterweights with Greg's ability to sense Mycroft's presence, the shifting of energies right before the other warlock appears. Greg knows he's playing dirty with every kiss and bite he gives to Mycroft’s lips, but he can hardly feel guilty about it. Greg feels the strain in his human body and knows eventually Mycfroft will gain the upper hand. Greg has only one trick left up his sleeve. 

Greg is unbuttoning his jeans and letting the fabric fall past his thighs before he can give it much thought. His bones grind together, skin giving way to fur, and his senses sharpen as the shift completes. He continues to run across the forest floor. He doesn't know if Mycroft notices the change or not, but the other warlock's pursuit doesn’t slow down. As a fox, Greg’s vision can easily pick up traces of magic; he can see the web of protection that Mycroft has laid across the forest clear as day, and not just the new wards. Layers and layers of old wards on top of each other, fading, some broken but still there, stretching across the forest, and Greg feels their caress as he runs past them, disturbing their tension as he runs. 

It has to be because he has recently been in tune with Mycroft’s magic. It’s the only explanation he can think of. Greg feels his own magic vibrating and reaching out as he passes through the webs. He looks behind him, startled to see his magic filling in the spots where his physical body has passed through the lines. Strangely, he doesn’t feel depleted but very much the opposite. He feels invigorated. He wants to run the whole forest, strengthen the woods’ weaknesses with his magic, intertwine his energy with Mycroft’s and bind them. 

There is a shift in the air again, and Greg barely has time to scramble under a bush, flattening his heaving body to the ground as he hides. Seconds later, Mycroft’s tall form appears, and Greg’s fox mind nearly breaks. While at times he can see auras around others, Greg’s never looked at Mycroft from entirely shifted eyes before. It’s captivating. Wisps of energy, like gossamer threads, float around the Warlock and Greg has no delusions as to who the real predator is tonight. Not with magic like _that_. 

He’s too distracted to realize that Mycroft’s gaze has zeroed in on his location, a smirk playing upon his lips, until it’s too late. He only notices the twitch in Mycroft’s pointer finger because the wisp near it briefly glows brighter, and Greg feels the bush begin to shake. He lets out a startled yip, and he’s off again into the night. 

They continue for a little longer, their casual game of hide-and-seek. Greg tucking his smaller body against some undergrowth or a rock while Mycroft takes a moment to deduce where he’s hiding. Greg barks in amusement as he darts away, and at one point, he dashes between Mycroft’s legs; It’s joyous and _fun._ The next time Greg senses a change in the air, there are two pressure spots, and it throws him off, but that’s all Mycroft needed. Greg nearly runs into a wall of leaves that rise from the ground, swirling around him, trapping him in a large circle. There’s the sound of feet behind him, and Greg knows that the chase is over. 

He turns to see Mycroft, hands in his trouser pockets, looking cavalier and nonchalant even though the forest foliage still twirls around them like a tornado. The casual show of raw power is seductive. _Mine_ , Greg thinks. Greg nods his head in acceptance of his capture, trotting closer to Mycroft. The wind stops, and the leaves fall back to earth as Mycroft kneels before him. 

Mycroft's smile is beautiful and bright as he reaches out a hand, “May I?” he asks. 

Greg nudges his head up into Mycroft’s palm in response, and his eyes close in contentment as Mycroft’s fingers run through his fur. The warlock’s gentle fingers explore the features of his face, ears, and neck. Greg breathes in deep, inhaling Mycroft’s scent of cedar and ink, of sweet sap and soft smoke. It reminds him of the way the sunlight spills through a forest of warm evergreens on a lazy afternoon. It’s addictive.

“While I certainly find you incredible normally, this form is also quite remarkable,” Mycroft says. 

Greg snorts, nipping at Mycroft’s fingers playfully, and Mycroft grins. 

“You are a very handsome silver fox,” Mycroft teases; there are faint laugh lines at the corner of his eyes, and Greg’s heart stutters. He is so in love with this man. 

Greg pushes forward, swiftly shifting his body, and by the time Mycroft gives a startled laugh, Greg’s naked human form is pressing Mycroft down onto the forest floor. In the back of his mind, he hopes Mycroft will forgive him for dirtying his suit. 

Greg’s skin prickles pleasantly, where Mycroft’s suit rubs against his body, as he slides his lips across Mycroft’s. He buries one hand in Mycroft’s soft hair, messing up the controlled short curls as he deepens the kiss, keeping his body from crushing Mycroft with his other hand. Mycroft moans into his mouth as Greg presses his hips firmly against Mycroft’s growing erection. The friction feels wonderful against his cock. Cool fingers map the muscles of his back, followed by a delicious drag of nails, and Greg nips at Mycroft’s chin. 

Mycroft’s hands slide down to his backside and squeeze. Greg tears his mouth away to groan into Mycroft’s jawline, “ _Mycroft._ ”

There’s a tingle of magic in the air like static electricity, and Greg is being flipped onto his back by Mycroft, his thighs straddled. Greg expects to feel the rough damp ground beneath him, but his body touches soft fabric, the same blanket from the previous night spread out on the ground. 

He laughs breathlessly, “Only you would magic a blanket into existence.”

“Well,” Mycroft drawls, trailing his fingers down Greg’s pectorals, palms dragging down to his navel. Greg bites his bottom lip as he watches Mycroft boldly look over his naked body, stopping to appreciate his rapidly swelling cock. He looks back up at Greg, eyes dark with desire, and a slow, wicked grin spreads across his face. “I _am_ a creature of comfort,” he purrs before running his fingers lightly down Greg’s cock. 

Greg groans, “Fuuuck.”

Mycroft’s mouth crashes into his, hungry and desperate. Greg slides his arms inside Mycroft’s jacket and around his back, fingers gliding over the silky fabric of his waistcoat. 

“You are wearing too many clothes,” Greg whines. 

Mycroft’s chuckle vibrates against his throat, “You are too impatient.”

Greg growls, “I’ll show you impatient.” He bucks his hips and pushes up on his elbows, attempting to roll them over, but Mycroft’s long fingers are wrapping around his wrists, pinning them to the ground. The strength in Mycroft’s hands as he holds Greg’s makes his breath catch and his cock pulse. Mycroft licks his lips, smiling, and then Greg is lost in the heady sensation of lips against his neck, the scrape of Mycroft’s beard against his skin. There’s a kiss to the pulsing hollow at the base of his throat and Greg whines; he feels like he’s going mad. He needs to feel Mycroft’s skin against his. 

Suddenly Mycroft’s weight is gone, and Greg blinks, staring up at Mycroft. The warlock is sliding out of his jacket and once again letting his magic hold it up in the air. It’s not a striptease in the usual sense but watching Mycroft's long fingers work the buttons of his waistcoat is delicious. Greg moves his hand to push against his cock, needing _something_ to give him some relief. 

“Gregory,” Mycroft warns lowly, and Greg briefly stills his hand. Mycroft arches an elegant eyebrow, and Greg bites his bottom lip playfully before moving his hand again. He barely has time to press against his swollen flesh before both his hands are being pinned above his head, held down by an invisible force. Mycroft hasn’t moved, but his expression is smug, and fuck, this is so hot. 

“Is this okay?” Mycroft asks as he continues to take off his clothes, watching Greg intently, hunger mapped out across his face. There is a thin gray ring of smoke around the dark pupils of his eyes. 

Greg nods and breathes out a low, “Yes.” He’s powerless right now, stretched out below Mycroft, body provocatively on display. The sheer want on Mycroft’s features is extremely flattering and intoxicating. To have Mycroft’s attention on Greg, to know that Mycroft wants him. _Fuck_ he wants Mycroft to devour him. His hips twitch desperately. A thick bead of pre-cum drips from the tip of his dick onto his taut stomach, leaving a thin strand from his stomach to the head of his cock, glistening in the moonlight. 

Greg bites down so hard that he can feel his sharp canines pierce the soft flesh of his bottom lip, and he tastes the metallic tang of blood, but the pain barely registers as he takes in the sight before him. The full moon’s light bathes Mycroft’s nude body in glorious rapture, light spilling down his chest and arms, highlighting the freckles on his shoulders and the bridge of his nose. Mycroft’s body is the perfect mixture of soft and firm, defined arm muscles and invitingly tender stomach. His cock is slightly longer than Greg’s but not as thick, and the tip is a dark pink as it curves towards his belly. Greg’s mouth waters; he wants to _feel_ and _taste_. 

“Unholy Hell. You’re so fucking gorgeous. Please fuck me,” Greg begs, embarrassed by the need in his tone. 

“With pleasure,” Mycroft purrs, the apples of his cheeks tinted pink. 

And _oh fuck yes,_ Mycroft is kneeling, bending down and pressing a wet heated kiss right above Greg’s thundering heart. Greg sucks air between his teeth sharply as Mycroft drags his lips across his ribs and downwards, nipping and sucking with an open mouth, leaving red marks against his skin. 

“Bloody hell, yes. Mark me. Fuck. Mycroft, I want you to _claim_ me,” Greg’s hips buck up, unable to keep still. Mycroft is going to be the death of him. Hot hands are on his hips, thumbs pressing down into the delicate skin at the V of his hips as Mycroft kisses his belly button. The swollen head of Greg’s cock brushes against the rugged underside of Mycroft's beard. 

“Jeeeeesus Christ,” Greg groans and then giggles helplessly when Mycroft lifts his head to look at him in mock horror. 

“ _Gregory_ ,” Mycroft admonishes, “you have spent far too much time around the mortals. Need I remind you we are in _his_ coven and not the false god’s?” 

Even kneeling and naked, Mycroft still has an air of authority around him, powerful and definitive. Greg tries to buck his hips again, but Mycroft’s hold is firm and steady, “Maybe I need some reminders,” Greg teases. “Good thing you are High Priest then, yeah?” 

Greg is delighted when Mycroft rolls his eyes and sighs in fond exasperation. He loves any emotion he can elicit from the other man, especially when his eyes soften with affection towards him. But now, their color is darkening with desire like an evening fog, thick and mysterious. 

The touch of Mycroft’s tongue against his shaft has Greg throwing his head back painfully, back arching but still pinned at the wrists and hips. _Unholy_ _fuck_. Greg clenches his eyes closed and swallows hard, willing himself not to look at Mycroft. If he looks, he's going to come embarrassingly quickly. He already feels so close, bursting with need; the build-up and tension from their chase is coiled tightly beneath his skin. He whines when Mycroft pulls back his foreskin and sucks lightly at his frenulum before moving to the tip of his cock, tongue swirling around the sensitive glans. 

The forest sounds fade away, and all of Greg’s focus is on Mycroft’s mouth and his warm breath against his skin. When Mycroft takes his dick into his mouth, enveloping his cock in hot moist heat, he gasps, and a low guttural moan tears through him into the night air. _Fuck me up._

Mycroft's fingers pull and caress his balls, middle finger pressing teasingly against his perineum. Greg feels his thighs tremble and the slow build of heat and pressure low in his pelvis. Mycroft sucks his cock wet, sloppy, and _dirty_. His long fingers run up the length of Greg’s body to find purchase and pinch at his nipples before traveling down his ribs and hips. When the other warlock moans, Greg can feel the vibrations down to his toes as they curl in blinding pleasure. He’s close, and he whines. He doesn't want this to be over soon. As if knowing Greg’s thoughts, Mycroft pulls off Greg’s cock with a wet pop and tenderly kisses the head just as Greg peers down at Mycroft.

If not for Mycroft’s fingers wrapped firmly around the base of his cock he might have come just looking at the sight of Mycroft’s puffy and glossy lips. Mycroft’s mouth is a drastic pink, irritated from the stretch around Greg’s cock, the color in sharp contrast to his beard’s dark ginger hair. Greg wants to run his fingers across the swollen bottom lip, to push his thumb into Mycroft’s heated mouth, press down onto his tongue just to feel the saliva pool around it. He imagines Mycroft swallowing around the digit, sucking hard, and he shivers.

“Fuck, Myc, if you don’t fuck me soon…”

Mycroft drags his teeth sharply along Greg's hip bone. “Beautiful,” Mycroft whispers into Greg’s skin, rubbing his lips against Greg’s sweat-slicked flesh as his fingers dig into the dip at Greg’s hip. Greg whines again, needy and loud.

“My, my, Gregory, patience--”

Greg’s hips strain against Mycroft's hands, and he lets out a dark throaty laugh, “I’ve been patient for _years_ , Mycroft.”

“Hmmm,” Mycroft hums, kissing more of his skin.

“Dammit, Mycroft, _please_ ,” Greg begs, and he shivers as a calm wind rustles the trees around him, his skin prickling at the air against his heated, flushed skin. He hears the click of a bottle cap, and his toes curl in anticipation. His pleas are rewarded when a slick finger slips between his arse cheeks, pressing against his hole. It’s a tease, a heady weight against his most intimate area, and he tries to shift his pelvis downwards in a vain attempt to sink onto Mycroft’s finger. The dark chuckle from the warlock only fuels Greg’s desire and frustration. He almost wants to ask Mycroft to release his magical hold on his arms but he likes the feeling of being at Mycroft’s mercy, his will, his pleasure. It makes him want to submit, to give in and be _consumed_. Hell help him. 

Mycroft continues to tease him, rubbing slick fingers up and down between his arse cheeks, before Mycroft’s finger slowly presses into him. He barely notices the invisible shockwave of energy that ripples out from their spot, ruffling the debris on the forest floor.

Mycroft raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “Interesting,” he purrs, before pressing in further, and Greg keens. The pressure is exquisite, and Greg’s very existence narrows down to the feel of Mycroft’s finger inside of him. The slick glide of his long digit, and when he feels pressure against his prostate, a savage growl is ripped from his throat. 

One finger becomes two, and two becomes three. The stretch is delicious and intense, his body trying to take Mycroft’s fingers into him as far as they can go. Slight discomfort and then yes, yes, yes, fuck, _please_. Mycroft kisses him when he inserts the third finger. The other man’s tongue caresses his sharp canines, no doubt tasting the cut on his lip. Greg is almost embarrassed by the noises spilling past his lips, but he’s past caring; everything is just Mycroft. Mycroft’s delicious scent, his fingers (fuck, he can feel the whorls of his fingers against his skin), and the warmth of his body. When Mycroft’s fingers pull away, leaving him open and _aching,_ he’s surprised to feel tears at the corners of his eyes. 

His arms are freed, and his body is being coached into moving. Greg goes willingly, and he doesn’t realize he’s straddling Mycroft’s hips until the other warlock pinches his nipples again, rasping out a breathy command, “Ride me, Gregory.” 

The feel of Mycroft’s cock sliding into him, stretching him, steals his breath away. He can barely hear the pounding of Mycroft’s heart over the thundering pulse of his own. He breathes heavily between parted lips and stares down at the glorious man beneath him. Mycroft’s scent is so much stronger and headier, he can taste the smoky sweetness on his tongue, and he swallows before he can start salivating. Mycroft’s hands are holding his hips so tightly as he slowly grinds down that he hopes there are bruises later, a reminder of this moment. 

There’s a layer of sweat on Mycroft’s body, and the sheen catches the moonlight. Greg wants to map out the constellation of freckles with his fingers and tongue, but he can’t bring himself to stop moving, to stop the slow glide of Mycroft inside of him. He leans forward to crash their lips together, hot and wet. His cock rubbing against Mycroft's stomach, precome smearing against the fine light hairs under Mycroft’s navel. 

Moans spill from Mycroft's lips, and Greg hungrily devours them. Passion pounds in the blood through his heart, chest, and head. 

“Myc, Myc— _please_ ,” Greg whines. He’s not sure what he’s asking for, he’s right on the edge, but he’s unable to fall, to tip over. 

Mycroft rolls them, cock briefly slipping out before he’s thrusting back in with deep steady strokes. Mycroft’s hands brace on the ground under Greg’s arms, and Greg grips Mycroft's elbow with one hand and slides his other into Mycroft's damp curls. He wraps his legs around Mycroft's slender hips, urging the other man to speed up with desperate moans. They breathe against each other’s lips, tasting the same air. 

“Fuck, yes, fuuuck.” 

“ _Gregory_ ,” Mycroft exhales, leaning back to grip Greg’s hips again and there— Yes. Fuck. There. There. _There._ He feels so full and stretched, and Greg’s cock slaps against his stomach as Mycroft fucks into him. Heat flairs in his groin, and his balls tighten, he’s so close, he’s so goddamn close. 

“Touch yourself,” Mycroft growls out, and Greg’s hand flies to his cock, sliding his hand over his swollen head, spreading copious amounts of precome down his shaft. 

Greg stares up, mouth open as he pants harshly, watching Mycroft’s body move against him. The sound of skin slapping and their moans fill his ears. 

“ _Mine_ ,” tumbles past Greg’s lips, and suddenly the world is spinning, and his body tightens as his pleasure crests. He comes, exploding in a downpour of fiery sensations and shattering into a million glowing stars. 

Blood roars in his ears, but he hears Mycroft groan out, “ _Yours_ ,” as his orgasm hits, burying his face in Greg’s neck. 

  
  


***

  
  


“I don’t want to leave,” Greg murmurs; he’s half lying on top of Mycroft with his ear pressing against Mycroft’s heart. He hears the slight uptick in the gently beating pulse under him. The air smells like _them_ and sex, and he runs his nose against the hairs on Mycroft’s chest. 

“It would be ill-advised to stay in the woods indefinitely,” Mycroft muses. 

Greg snorts and lifts his head to look at Mycroft, “You know what I meant.”

“Do I?”

Greg sighs fondly and rolls away onto his back, staring up at the sky. They only have a few hours left before the moon starts to make its slow descent back to earth. Fireflies lazily float around them, like tiny stars blinking in and out. Greg initially thought it was Mycroft’s doing, but the warlock denied it. The sounds of the forest seem softer than its usual cadence of noise and life. Right now, it sleepily hums with the wind, the chirps of crickets, and the occasional hoot of an owl. He feels at ease, laying next to Mycroft, smelling sweat and joy on their skin. 

“When I left,” Greg begins, “I knew there were only two things that would bring me back here.”

Greg lifts his hand in the air and watches with amusement as a firefly weaves between his fingers. “The first thing was Ronnie, obviously,” he says. 

Mycroft shifts next to him, propping himself up on one elbow to gaze at Greg, “And the other?” he prompts. 

“You can’t deduce it?”

“I would like to hear it all the same.”

Greg turns his head to meet Mycroft’s soft midwinter eyes. There’s hope in their depths but also some trepidation. There is _doubt_ in his handsome face. He’s worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, and Greg’s chest aches. How can this man not _know_ with 100% certainty how mad Greg is for him? 

“It was you,” Greg says, “it's always been you.”

Mycroft's smile is achingly beautiful; he can’t help but kiss him softly. 

“Sally mentioned they were down a Sergeant, and I’m hoping to get a transfer if there are no issues.”

Mycroft hums and gives a sly smile, “I have a feeling the paperwork is already complete.”

Greg laughs, “Of course it is… I’ll have to find my own place, too. I can’t be taking up space at Ronnie’s.”

“Please, Gregory, you know you will be staying with me,” Mycroft chides. 

“Oh? Am I a kept man now?”

“Hardly.”

“Are you sure? I’m not the neatest warlock to live with. I leave my clothes on the floor, and I’ll track mud into the house. I hog the sheets.”

“I am certain that I can live with your flaws as long as you can live with mine.”

“I doubt you have any flaws.”

Mycroft’s hand caresses his hipbone, his fingers press against the bruises he left earlier, and Greg bites back a moan. “I frequently work late. While I try to maintain control over it, I do have a temper. I am also fiercely possessive,” Mycroft kisses Greg’s jawline before giving it a sharp bite, “of what I hold dear.”

“Yeah?” Greg grins, turning to capture Mycroft’s lips with his. He gives him a slow kiss, dragging his sharp canines on Mycroft’s bottom lip before giving it a tender lick. “Guess we’re a match made in Hell.”

“Quite.”

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> * “Symphony of sensuality and pleasure” is a quote from the show
> 
> Comments/thoughts are always welcomed! 
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr ](https://thesilverapplesofthemoon.tumblr.com) :)


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